


Paralyzed

by LadyHeliotrope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Chubby Severus Snape, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Good Severus Snape, Happy Ending, Hogwarts Hospital Wing, Hospitalization, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Mind Manipulation, Paralysis, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Psychological Torture, Psychological Warfare, Recovery, Sad Severus Snape, Severus Snape Lives, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22518931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHeliotrope/pseuds/LadyHeliotrope
Summary: What if during Chapter 32 of Deathly Hallows, 'The Elder Wand', Hermione Granger made the rash decision to save Severus Snape in the Shrieking Shack? And can she deal with the aftereffects? Alternate ending for HP7, SS/HG. EWE. Post DH. Psychological torture by Voldemort but everything ends up ok. Permanent physical disability, written realistically.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 21
Kudos: 118
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members, Severus Snape with Disability and/or Chronic Illness Fics





	1. Chapter 1

_Premise: What if, during Chapter 32 ('The Elder Wand') of Deathly Hallows, Hermione acts rashly for once and decides to save Snape?_

**Paralyzed**

-1-

Orpheus touched her, and two ideas hit in a blinding flash of inspiration.

_One: Dumbledore did always say that Snape was on our side. Now, if Dumbledore was right—and him being one of the greatest wizards of our century leads me to suspect that he **was** —Harry and I have a moral obligation to save Snape._

_Two: Even if Dumbledore was wrong, and Snape always was loyal to the Death Eaters, I don't think Snape will be nearly so gung-ho for Voldemort after being attacked. Even Slytherins are affronted when other Slytherins betray them. Therefore, if Harry and I save him, he'll likely prove a useful ally._

Of course, these thoughts materialized in a flurry of impressions rather than words, but they still had an enormous impact on Hermione. Pushing Harry away, she revealed herself to the two men. In the full glory of Gryffindor bravado, she brandished her wand and attempted to fire an _Avada Kedavra_ at Voldemort.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

-2-

"Granger!" the prostrate potions professor gasped, agape. If not for this cry, Hermione would have attributed his expression to the snake at his neck rather than her sudden appearance. As it was, however, she was startled by the concentration of his eyes on her, and her curse flailed.

Voldemort easily deflected the feeble power.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," the dark wizard stated, a debonair tone to his voice. "What a pleasant surprise. I believe you're just in time to dine with us."

_Us?_ Her mind, in overdrive, analyzed the misused pronoun. _Oh. Of course. His snake feeds on the blood of a dying man, which also satiates his own appetite to demonstrate his superior abilities.  
_

And, to her immense sadness and surprise, she felt like she understood Lord Voldemort's soul.

-3-

_Maybe he's like me,_ she thought, so startled by the revelation that she was only mildly concerned as she watched Voldemort snap his fingers a single time and Nagini's fangs withdraw from Snape's throat. _Maybe he just wants to prove his magical worth._ That made sense to her.

It was a lot easier to hate the man who once had been Tom Riddle when she couldn't put a face to the name. She knew plenty about him, of course, from what Harry had told her and from her own covert studies. But she had never thought about him as a _person_ before.

The snake, having done enough damage to Snape, was edging its way over to Hermione.

"Foolish Gryffindor," her opponent chastised softly, and her eyes met his red ones. It didn't occur to her to look away before it was too late.

Memories that she never remembered storing came back to her—an 'O' paper she received in first year with the scathing comment 'could be more coherent' from Flitwick, a time when a new pair of shoes wouldn't fit and she wished for a magical mother to show her how to lengthen them, how one time in sixth-year Potions 'The Prince' was wrong and _she_ was right.

Then she realized that she could think clearly again—and Voldemort hadn't killed her yet.

-4-

Voldemort was regarding her with apparent curiosity.

"Fancy that," he murmured. "The Mudblood has ambition. A very keen ambition, if I do say so myself. You never told me this of her, Snape."

The only reply from the Potions Master was a garbled choking noise.

"You are Harry Potter's friend and the brains behind him, I gather?" Voldemort asked, lowering his hand enough that his snake could slowly wind up his arm. "Where is he now?"

She closed her eyes, almost certain that she heard Harry gasp in the darkness behind her. _Voldemort's sure to torture me now._ A stone settled in her stomach as she remembered what damage Bellatrix had dealt to her not long prior. _It can't be worse than that, can it?_

But she heard a dry chuckle.

"It's irrelevant. Don't worry, little girl, I'm not going to hurt you."

-5-

She was stunned. _He's not going to hurt me?_ This incredulity was only brief, however, given the nature of her previous realization. _He knows what I'm like; he just went through my memories. He probably also knows that I can relate to him, since that's what I was just thinking about. Maybe he's going to spare me. But under what condition?_ This was far too obvious—no doubt he would ask her to take the mark.

Voldemort had a wry smile on his face when she looked at him in askance.

"As you've probably already reasoned, young lady, I think you would be an admirable advisor. I do need someone to replace our dear Professor Snape—such a pity I had to dispose of him."

The man on the floor did not stir; the amount of blood around him signified to Hermione that he was already dead. _No one could survive that amount of blood loss for so long._

She blamed herself for having jumped out so rashly. _I might waited until Voldemort left and then have saved him,_ she lamented. _Now I'm in a bad place myself. If only I get out of this alive..._

-6-

Voldemort continued, "I can understand why you would be on Potter's side from the beginning, Miss Granger: he befriended you in your first year when you chose to battle against that giant troll and overestimated your own capabilities."

_That wasn't a memory he saw,_ Hermione thought, but then she cast her eyes down at the dead man across the room. _But Snape was there. Being the spy to Hogwarts, he probably mentioned the thing to Voldemort.  
_

"Yes indeed, it was Snape who mentioned that particular tidbit to me," Voldemort confirmed, watching her intensely. "A good example of Gryffindor bravado, really, to go on such a hopeless quest with nothing but a 'wing and a prayer', so to speak. But while Snape thought the anecdote purely amusing, it told me much about young Potter's character, specifically his primary failing: selflessness. Grand inspiration, it was—later I used it against him, almost successfully."

_Sirius,_ thought Hermione. _Oh God. Sirius' death was my fault! Because Snape believed my story that I had gone up to face trouble alone and the boys followed me? Oh no._

Hermione rarely lied—for rarely did she have to—but she would never do so again. Her pride was incredibly shaken at the repercussions of the single falsehood. 

-7-

"Embarrassed, are we?" Voldemort crooned. "Rightfully so. But I think you learned from that experience. Mostly."

His lips twitched in a smirk, and Hermione realized he was alluding to her abrupt entrance minutes ago.

"As I was saying," he went on, "I can understand why you have been on the opposing side for so long, Miss Granger. You were, as I mentioned, befriended by Potter, which obligated you to his debt. After that, you apparently kept his grades afloat—his exam and homework scores marvelously increased once you entered his life. I do think you repaid that debt early on with your assistance alone—but you kept helping him. Why so? I imagine that it's because you didn't _feel_ that your efforts were appreciated—he didn't ever tell you so. Instead, he took advantage of your guilt, never bothering to wonder why you started helping him in the first place."

_He's not right about the guilt,_ Hermione thought, _considering he doesn't know the whole situation. But about my helping them with academics—he's very right. They never truly have thanked me._ She had always been hurt by that, but put up with it, imagining that it would never change. _I didn't help them because I felt guilt—I helped because I love Ron and want him to succeed, and because I pity Harry and his upbringing, which is such a contrast to my own, and I also want him to succeed._

"Then also," Voldemort continued silkily, "you _did_ almost have a chance, before your poor foolish headmaster died. Courtesy of Snape, again."

-8-

_Is this your eulogy for Snape?_ Hermione wondered, _or did you rely on him just that much?_ In the latter case, she could understand Voldemort's impressive need to recruit her.

This thought was attended by a guttural groan from the man on the floor.

Snape was still alive.

"Poor fellow," Voldemort said, feigning concern, "perhaps I ought to make it a bit easier for him." He pointed his wand at the immobile Snape. "Or not," he added thoughtfully, drawing it back. "He _was_ un-loyal to me after the First War, crawling to Dumbledore's side for forgiveness. No matter how useful he was to me—I could never fully forget, could I? But you, my dear," he said softly, "You're scarcely of age. Your side was chosen for you. And the people who chose for you were fools."

_That's true,_ Hermione thought. _I never chose to be on the side of the Order and Dumbledore and all the rest of them. But I never retaliated, either,_ she realized. _If I had moral objection to it, then I would have early on._

"You may think now," Voldemort continued, "that you were assigned to be on the better side, morally or ethically. But," he explained, "have you ever considered that the Aurors might be no better than my Death Eaters? There's been death on both sides, and the numbers are nearly equal. We may be seen as 'terrorists'—but my aim, Miss Granger, is not to terrorize. I merely have an idea, one that has proven fairly popular among many, and the government is out to get myself and my supporters. Did you ever think that this might just be a political squabble between the few and the many?"

This resonated far too strongly for her—she didn't found S.P.E.W. without reason!— and, despite her own preconceived notions, she bristled at the unjustness indicated by Voldemort.

_He's trying to turn me,_ she reasoned. _And he's arguing at my intellectual level._ The idea was uncomfortable. _It's been so long since I talked to an equal._

-9-

"But let's talk about you, Miss Granger," the Slytherin continued, "not this dreary political inanity. I'd be a liar to say it bored me, but there are some times at which it's more tactful to stay away from the subject."

He took a step towards her, stroking his snake all the while.

"I trust this is the reason you are so silent this evening?"

Hermione remained stony. _It's better to not answer anything and make sure he doesn't get a glimpse of my mind again,_ she supposed, dropping her eyes to look at the floor.

"You are instinctual when it comes to survival, aren't you?" mused the man. "That is valuable. Now, Miss Granger, I suggest you consider very carefully what I'm going to propose."

She nodded, perhaps too vigorously, in assent.

"In a few minutes' time," Voldemort began, "I will meet Harry Potter on the field of battle. The boy is a fool—he does not know the odds are far, far against him this time. He cannot be lucky on this encounter. This is when my luck changes. I will be victorious, not him.

"When he has been defeated, all of Wizarding Britain will be crushed. My man, Rufus Scrimageour, is in the office of Minister of Magic. At my word, he will resign the place to me. From this position, I will have contact with the Muggle Prime Minister of Britain, and I will take down the parliamentary monarchy, do away with the current royalty, and replace myself as the head of a nation. All this done very slowly, of course, so that no one suspects a thing. No one will be able to stop me, after that—from there I'll be able to begin to extend my prerogative beyond the boundaries of this little island."

Hermione was horrified. _And this is what he desires? World domination?_

"Granted," Voldemort went on, "land and civil power is only secondary to mental power. However, once these lesser powers are achieved, I'll begin to work with this, too. That has been my ultimate aim, after all—to revise the social hierarchy so that the brightest are the highest, not the lowest. I think you'll like what I plan to do."

-10-

"I plan," he carefully began, "to create a Utopia arranged by the value of one's own mind. For instance," he described, "the wise would rule, rather than the most powerful. Of course," he added, an absent look in his eyes, "right now I'm focused on the powerful—targeting Pureblood wizards was no accident—but the ends, I think, justify the means.

"While now I am eager for rich and stupid in-bred fogies, while now I ostentatiously pursue bringing wizards out of hiding and into a powerful and glorious rule, while now I attract much that I mean to destroy..." Here, words failed him, and he approached Hermione, coming far too close for her own comfort.

"...I think you know what it means to keep your 'friends close but enemies closer', my dear."

She squirmed.

"So," he continued with a twitching smirk, "just what do you think of _that?"_

"I can't say," she replied, demurely looking towards the floor while cursing the fact that her wand was out of sight.

"Are you truly interested?" Voldemort replied, a spark of delight in his voice.

_I need time to think of a plan for escape,_ she told herself, but she couldn't be certain that she wasn't curious.

-11-

"I am interested," she half-lied, "tell me about your hierarchal structure. I suppose it's not based on blood birth?"

She might have imagined a slightly revolted cringe, but it could have been the dim light and the shadows.

"Not at all, my dear," the dark man said, "as I said before, it's based on merit of the mind alone. I base my rankings on one of the greatest minds of the ancients, Plato, who writes of organization of the souls in _Phaedrus_."

"That's a good base," complimented Hermione, for lack of anything better to say.

He took the compliment in stride. "Plato writes, in essence, that the most important people are philosophers—lovers of knowledge and wisdom, not necessarily the pedantic academics who live in books because they do not have the experience of real life. Not like The Underground Man," he affirmed, but Hermione, with her classical wizard education, didn't catch the reference to Dostoyevsky.

"So, the topmost in the social strata is the philosopher, followed by those who have seen "truth in the second degree", as Plato says: he says they would be 'great kings' or 'great warriors', but considering the governmental system I intend to put in place, only the second would be applicable. Think of them as the military cabinet, if you will, Hermione."

He tested her name on his tongue, gauging her reaction, and it took all of her will to smile like a flattered lamb.

The deceit convinced him, apparently, and he continued, "Plato enumerates rank three to consist of politician, economist, and traders. The fourth will consist of healers and athletes, the fifth will be seers and other people who claim to have connection to the divine. Afterwards comes the artists, then your 'average joe' office worker, farmer, or artisan, and after that is...well, Hitler was a trifle extreme to kill all dissenters, but he was right to isolate them. They rank in the lowest class, the political criminals."

"It's...intriguing," Hermione replied, but at the same time felt sick. _My grandparents survived the Holocaust!_ she thought. _I'd like to end these 'dreary political inanities'._

All this time, she had let him talk with the hope that she might think of some way to get out of her present situation. Some vague idea had been forming, but at the mention of Hitler, Hermione was distracted, and she blanked, to her great chagrin.

_Damn! I think it's going to come down to me deciding to join Voldemort or die. Which will I choose?_

-12-

"Hermione."

The syllables were like treacle on Voldemort's tongue. Hermione felt bitter as she heard them.

"Do you like my ideas?"

"I do," she replied, carefully. _Living hell or death?_ she pondered. _I'm not fool enough to think that I can get out of this a living Gryffindor._

She wondered vaguely what Severus Snape would have thought to know that she was thinking this. Then she thought about Harry. She hoped he had left, so he wouldn't have to watch her if she chose to turn against him.

"Do you like them enough, Hermione...to rectify the mistakes of those who chose your side for you?"

She closed her eyes, but found that her reason failed her.

_I'll have to go by instinct._

She didn't know what she was going to say, but she opened her mouth, and a single word emerged.

"No."


	2. Chapter 2

-13-

"No," she repeated, feeling proud of herself but also, at the same time, very _very_ scared. "I can't join you."

Did he seem even remotely crestfallen? She supposed he didn't. His eyes were red, but cold like rubies.

"No matter," he replied, as unconcerned as if a butterfly had landed on his shoulder. "I suppose I should thank you for your time...but, seeing as it's been at my own expense, I won't bother."

With a snap of his willowy fingers, Nagini unraveled herself from around his shoulders and lunged for the young woman. Hermione's scream was muted as she felt the sharp poke of the snake's fangs touch her flesh. Then she heard the pop of the snake's jaw detaching so it could take a larger bite, and everything was pain.

"You talk too much, Voldemort!" she heard a yell behind her, and, as she sank to her knees, she wondered if it was a blessing or a curse that Harry had stayed.

 _At the very least, there's a friend at hand to watch me die,_ she reflected as she grew numb to the physical pain. _Unlike poor Snape._

-14-

She didn't see the simple _Avada Kedavra_ that hit Harry, but she did notice the falling of a warm body near her own, the withdrawal of Nagini's fangs from her neck, and the pop as Voldemort Disapparated from the Shrieking Shack.

"Harry?"

His gentle green eyes were closed behind his glasses, which were (as they always seemed to be) broken at the middle.

"Harry!"

She grasped at the ground, dragging herself closer to her late friend, and began to sob.

_He died for me. He was supposed to save the Wizarding world, but he died for me. Oh no. I've possibly ruined us forever. And maybe I won't even live to fix my mistake._

She couldn't express herself in words, what with her grief, blood loss, and poison-filled veins. Tears were her only consolation.

At least, until she heard a low voice tell her, "Shut up, Granger, and let me have a look at him!"

-15-

 _All my pity is wasted,_ she thought with some chagrin as Severus Snape shoved her away from her best friend's apparent corpse, though she did note that he had apparently dragged himself across the room to get there.

After a few diagnostic spells with what Hermione recognized as _her_ wand, her professor sighed with obvious relief.

"He's all right. Just unconscious. I can't believe it. That spell hit him square in the head."

Snape's neck wasn't healed, but the blood at his throat was clotting, and Hermione envied it. She was altogether too aware of the pain she still felt.

However, as he turned his head to look at her, he noticed her distress. In response, he tossed a full vial into her lap.

Her eyes were skeptical.

"It's phoenix tears, you daft girl," he snapped, raising a hand to blot at the congealed blood on his neck with the cuff of his sleeve. "Apply some as a topical and ingest the rest orally."

With these stern instructions, Hermione uncorked it and, with a jerk, splashed the contents on her wound. Instantly, her blood dried, and she felt her skin knitting together. It was miraculous to experience. She swallowed a little more from the bottle, but it occurred to her that Snape _probably_ didn't have a second bottle on him. _He might need it later.  
_

"The only damned decent thing Albus ever did for me," muttered Snape under his breath, as he fussed over the boy he'd hated all his life.

Hermione realized, almost to her surprise, that her guess about Snape being good was _actually_ right!

"I'm so glad," were her first words after her recovery.

-16-

It was Snape's turn to look at her skeptically after that.

"Glad of what?" he asked, dually instructing, "Rouse this dunderhead."

She shook Harry's shoulder, replying, "That you're on our side."

"You didn't realize that when you so _foolishly_ imperiled your life on my behalf?"

When she didn't answer, he added, "Focus on your friend."

But Harry was already awake. "What...where?" he asked stupidly, looking around him, but when he saw Hermione, he smiled. "I'm not dead," he said, a serene smile on his face, "and I've had a chat with Professor Dumbledore in another dimension. Everything's going to be all right. Don't worry. You're not to blame for anything—in fact, he complimented you."

So saying, he hugged Hermione for a long moment. Then he turned his attention to his professor, who glowered behind them.

"Professor Dumbledore had some things to tell me about you too, Professor," he said quietly. "I...I didn't realize...I had no idea that you...and....my-"

"-Potter!" interrupted Snape harshly. "That's enough."

His voice was strained too, however, no matter how he disguised it with his ferocity. Hermione could tell that it was more than just an aftereffect of Nagini's fangs.

-17-

"Okay, Professor, we won't talk about this now, but we must talk about it later. Please?"

Hermione saw a glint in Harry's eye that had heretofore been reserved for Sirius, and sometimes Remus Lupin. She wondered what it meant.

Snape shook his head in response. "I don't know what you want to possibly _talk_ about, Potter, but it...might be arranged."

"Come on," Harry insisted, standing up, "I've got some time now. Dumbledore said that I'm no longer connected to Voldemort—he killed the piece of his soul that was inside me. Now I'm Just Harry. And now I'll be able to defeat him for good!"

"Don't talk too much, Potter," Snape warned, shaking his head wearily. "And I also advise you not to count your chickens. From what I was told...it's either both of you or-"

"-No, no, didn't you hear what I just said?" Harry replied, but he wasn't exasperated or frustrated. Indeed, as he said this, he extended his hands to help his old Professor stand.

 _Before me,_ Hermione noted coldly, feeling the seed of hurt and envy spring in her heart. _Thanks, Voldemort. Now I'm discontent with my friends, for no bloody reason except your insinuations!_

The other man regally extended a single hand. "I heard you, but I can't believe you. Likewise, I still don't like you."

"You don't need to like me, Professor," Harry replied gallantly, helping Snape to his feet, "and you never will need to. But I'd like it awfully if you'd talk to me. I...I'm simply bowled over by everything I've learned about you from Dumbledore. Christ!"

Snape's legs gave way under him, and he fell to the ground again.

-18-

"Damn and blast!" Snape cursed aloud, and Hermione could see that Snape was breathing hard and swallowing often. "Hemiparesis!"

 _Hemiparesis: partial loss of movement or impaired movement, typically in one leg and an arm. Oh no!_ Hermione experimented briefly and, to her horror, discovered that she was not immune either. Her wand hand and right leg were strenuous to move, and she could barely feel her fingers and toes.

Snape was apparently panicking, which Hermione took as a bad sign.

"Just...leave me, Potter," he insisted, "Take care of your friend and send back Healer Pomfrey for me. Then do your business with the Dark Lord."

Harry turned helplessly to Hermione, who gritted her teeth.

"I don't think I can stand, either," Hermione replied, and demonstrated her muscles' futility.

"The nerves are ossifying from the venom," Snape coldly said. "Or it could be the muscles. I don't know."

"I could...levitate you both..." Harry suggested, but he felt a hard glare from Snape in particular.

"Once is enough, Potter," the older man replied acerbically, clearly alluding to the time in their third year. "Just...go."

"I'll be back!" Harry yelled as he ran back down the tunnel.

With an enormous sigh, Snape lay back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"What was Harry talking about, before?" Hermione asked, feeling very tired too.

"Never you mind," Snape replied, adding, "Sometime, Granger, you've got to learn when to stop asking questions."

-19-

She was quiet for a few moments, and then she remembered the phoenix tears that she hadn't used.

 _I guess he meant to save them for Harry, in case Harry needed them,_ she figured, _and then he sacrificed what he ought to have taken for me. But now he ought to have the rest._

So thinking, she crawled over to him.

"Professor? Here." She chucked them into his lap, but he did not stir. Anxiety creeping upon her, she scooted herself to his side and took his wrist's pulse.

It was very faint indeed.

Hastily, she tipped back half of the remainder of the tears onto his wound, which, like hers, began to knit together. He did not stir.

 _I suppose I'll have to dump the rest down his throat myself,_ she thought, not pleased at the prospect of touching him so intimately. But, what she needed to do she would do, and she hadn't 'foolishly imperiled' her life on his behalf just to watch him die!

-20-

Her hand came under his chin, and she realized it was stubbly and...well...the only way she could describe it was _virile._

Shaking this thought away with an indignant toss of her head, she placed her weaker hand on his forehead, to tilt his head back. She was very surprised by the deep wrinkles already furrowed in his brow, despite his youth (for a wizard), and it occurred to her once more how very _wrong_ it was to touch her Professor so.

But she was just doing her duty.

As soon as his head was tilted back, she gently parted his thin, pallid lips with her thumb and forefinger. They were unpleasant to touch, for they were much bitten and chapped, and looked positively painful.

But, now the path was clear for the potion of tears.

She tilted back the vial and let the last slimy drops diffuse across the surface of his tongue, then took his wrist again and prayed that his pulse would be more stable.

It was. And Severus Snape seemed to feel the magic of revitalization coursing through him, as she had before—he opened his eyes, looked painfully at the girl sitting next to him, and muttered:

"Bloody Gryffindors."

-21-

"You weren't supposed to do that," Snape whispered hoarsely. "I'd had enough already."

This puzzled her. "The vial was full!"

His eyes were painful. "Even a mere whiff is enough to provide...some relief. Some strength."

With that, he slumped again, his eyes closed and his muscles taut.

Hermione sat in fascinated horror, then, for lack of knowing what to do, she took his pulse again. It was steady and regular.

 _A coma?_ she wondered, but then she felt her own eyelids growing heavy.

_I don't know what it is, but I'm exceedingly tired._

With that, she shrugged a little away from her Professor and leaned against the wall in imitation of him.

She didn't remember anything else until she opened her eyes and recognized the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.


	3. Chapter 3

-22-

"I'm brave, Madame Pomfrey. What's the worst of it?"

Hermione awoke to hear Harry's voice somewhere rather close, feeling the stiff starched sheets of a hospital bed all around her. As her eyes opened, she saw the great flying buttresses of the Hospital Wing and felt a cool draft of May morning breeze.

She had returned to consciousness. Careful, she turned her head a fraction towards the voices, swallowing to eliminate the dryness in her mouth.

"Well, Mr. Potter," she heard Madame Pomfrey say, "I can't say for certain that either of them will come out of it. But, the good news is, I've detected evidence of Phoenix tears on both of their lips, and, as I pointed out before, the wounds on their necks have nearly healed."

The pair was behind a set of curtains that, Hermione noticed, framed her bed. They couldn't see that she was awake, and she sighed.

"I wouldn't give up hope at all, Harry. There's a very good chance," Pomfrey said, "that both will be back in our realm eventually...but time will tell."

 _I'm awake,_ Hermione thought desperately, attempting to sit up and alert. _I'm out of it already!_

But then she felt a great and heavy weight pressing on her tense head, and she leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

_I just need to sleep..._

-23-

The next time she opened her eyes, she heard the humming of the matron and the clicking of knitting needles.

"Well now, dearie, you have a nice rest?" asked Pomfrey, without looking up, and then Hermione realized that the Healer was talking to her.

"I'm still tired," Hermione rasped painfully, then grimaced.

"Water?"

Pomfrey was immediately at her side, filling a lightweight balsawood cup with water. She put it to Hermione's lips, and the girl drank greedily.

"Not too much, now," the older woman said, "you wouldn'ae want to get sick all over."

"How long was I asleep?" Hermione asked, relishing the coolness of the cup in her hands.

"Just nigh on a day. Are you peckish? I've some digestives—but if you'll be wanting something more substantial, would you care for some broth?"

"Sounds wonderful," Hermione replied, "broth, I mean."

With that, the Healer called an elf, which brought back an enormous bowl of Hogwarts' finest vegetable soup.

But, to her immense sadness, she couldn't lift her right hand to take the spoon.

-24-

"I can't move my hand," whispered Hermione, anxiety draining her energy. She fell back on her pillows, though the way that Pomfrey had propped them, the distance to go was not far.

The Healer tut-tutted. "No, love. The nerves were poisoned. It's lucky that only the right half of your body was affected. The poor Professor was not so."

She experimented carefully—indeed, her left hand was perfectly controllable, if a little weak, as was her left leg. However, her right leg and her right arm refused to budge.

 _I...how am I supposed to get around?_ she wondered, her nervousness making her tremble. _Or even use magic? This is horrible! And she says Professor Snape is worse?_ She guiltily realized that she'd forgotten all about him.

"Professor Snape?" Hermione asked, taking the spoon with her left hand to feed herself. "How is he? Is he still alive?"

Pomfrey's large eyes reflected the many burdens of her profession, and Hermione got the idea that perhaps Pomfrey was well acquainted with Severus Snape as a patient.

"He's alive," the Healer said soberly, "but not by much more than the skin of his teeth. It's a cryin' shame that he didn't just let himself die, in my personal opinion, because when he awakes—if he does, mind—he'll have a hell of an existence to deal with."

"Why so?" queried the young Gryffindor.

"Why, he won't have the use of much more than his speech, the way I figure it. All four limbs of his are dead weights."

-25-

"Oh," Hermione replied, grateful at once to at least have her one hand to aid her. "How dreadful."

"Dreadful indeed," replied Pomfrey, "and what with the kind of life he's been living all his life, finally when he's finally free of the war and both sides of it...he'll be trapped by his own body."

Pity welled in Hermione's heart, and she wondered if she should have used all of the phoenix tears on her professor. _Heaven knows, I did little enough to deserve them._

"Would you like to know about the results of the Battle now, hon?" the Healer asked kindly, obviously trying to change the subject.

"Yes, indeed."

And so Pomfrey began to tell her.

Many people had died, but not so many as Hermione would have guessed. Among the more painful were Fred Weasley and Remus and Tonks Lupin. Hermione lay back on her pillows to listen to the rest of what Pomfrey had to say, numb and teary-eyed.

-26-

"But Harry's alive. And we won," Hermione reasoned, wondering whether the losses outweighed the victory. She and other hapless victims would have been slated for destruction, however, had Voldemort succeeded in Harry's stead—and she was immensely grateful that such hadn't happened.

"It would have been nice if we hadn't needed to fight at all," she complained.

"I agree, hon, that would'ae been nice," the Healer replied, resuming the clicking of her needles.

"Can...can I see Harry and Ron, soon?" Hermione asked, guiltily remembering that her parents were far off in Australia and didn't even remember that she existed. _I suppose my only family are my friends, for the moment._

"They'll be workin' on helpin' to rebuild the castle right now, but when I see them at supper, I'll let'em know you're up to seein' them."

Satisfied with that, Hermione smiled. "Wonderful. Erm..." Her eyelids were heavy as lead. "I think I'll be going back to sleep now."

"That's fine, dear," the matron replied, not looking at her.

-27-

When Hermione awoke next, the curtain around her bed was gone, and a hot meal appeared on a tray on her lap as soon as she opened her eyes. Picking distastefully at the bland oatmeal, she saw that the curtain from around her bed had been removed, and now she could see that there were several other patients in the wing.

Most were students of around her age, and she recognized the majority of them by sight if not by name.

She saw two Hufflepuff boys, sporting immense scars but seeming cheerful nonetheless, who chatted aimlessly and laughed with each other. Neither looked like he would be bedridden for very much longer.

She saw Marietta Edgecombe, who seemed sulky and put-upon, appearing as though she was compelled to sit on a couple of horned toads. Hermione noted with scorn that the other girl was casting dirty looks at _her_ over the cover of a book. _Fat lot of right she's got to do that, the sneak,_ Hermione judged savagely, bitterness from fifth year resurfacing. _There's nothing even bloody wrong with her, from what I can see._

She saw Roger Davies, too, experimenting with crutches at his bedside. Noticing Hermione looking at him, he waved, but almost lost his balance as a result. With a tired hand, she waved back.

The bed nearest her was curtained in black. It was terrible to behold, and Hermione fancied that the folds of the linen could suck happiness from her soul as well as any Dementor. She could only guess that behind the curtain lay the comatose Severus Snape.

-28-

Boredom soon seized Hermione in the Hospital Wing. Harry and Ron came to see her as soon as they heard of her revival, and once every day afterward, but their time with her was short because they were working to fix the castle. They supplied her with books from the library and sweet morsels from the kitchen, but nonetheless their presence was minimal.

It wouldn't have been too bad, if the other patients hadn't been leaving the sinking ship so quickly.

Roger Davies had nothing more than a broken ankle, and it wasn't even from the Battle—he'd plummeted from some scaffolding during the renovation of the castle. So, as soon as it had set neatly, he was permitted to leave and go back to work. Then the Hufflepuff boys left, one at a time, one to go find his family because it was still in hiding, and one to also help reconstruct the castle.

Hermione was chagrined to see that Marietta Edgecombe had lost an entire leg in the battle, and therefore was _not_ quite as fine as she'd imagined. The girl's mother came to pick her up fairly soon, however, so Hermione wasn't cursed with her presence for very long.

Life was otherwise a cycle of nastiness: rubbing foul-smelling lotion all over her affected limbs, taking revolting potions, and eating tragically-bland meals that were selected to prevent an upset stomach. All this, plus she was not allowed a bath except for every other day.

 _At least I can brush my teeth whenever I want,_ Hermione sourly consoled herself. It wasn't long before she resumed her obsessive flossing habit, previously abandoned in her fifth year.

-29-

Some days, Hermione would imagine that she could feel her right-foot toes or the tips of her right-hand fingers, and, in an attempt at independence, she'd grasp her right ankle and wrench her leg from under the blankets. Sometimes she managed so far as to slip down to the floor. However, every time she tried this adventure, she discovered herself incapable of controlling her limbs, much less of standing upon her own two feet. Her balance was obstinately absent.

So, she'd hoist herself back onto the bed before Pomfrey noticed. This was a laborious process in itself. First, she had to balance herself upright without use of either arm, a difficult process considering that simply being upright made her nauseous. The most efficient way to execute this was to tuck her head down and lean it into the side of the bed, so that her left hand was free. Then she had to bend her left leg, without falling over, so that she could take hold of her right ankle with her left hand, and then she had to stand straight again to establish her right leg on the bed. Before this, she had to make sure that her right arm was already on the bed, because otherwise she'd have to start all over. From there, she had to use all the strength in her left leg and left arm to spring into the bed, and then she had to crawl back to position and readjust the bedclothes.

Needless to say, it was easier to stay where she was put, but Hermione was stubborn and would not settle for being told what to do.

One morning, two weeks after she'd first awoken, Hermione got out of bed and attempted this acrobatic experiment again—but, for a brief moment, she was stable on her two feet.

"Huzzah!" she exclaimed, the victory as monumental to her as Waterloo was to Wellington. However, the very shriek of success was her downfall, for the vibration of it sent her toppling—forward, and headfirst into the black curtain.

-30-

The black curtain and the rods holding it up collapsed, and Hermione landed on the floor among the mess.

"What on earth?" She heard a voice from far across the wing, and Hermione's face grew red as Madam Pomfrey's sensible shoes clomped across the marble floor.

"Poppy?" Another voice was above her, too, one that was gravelly and low and tainted with despondency. Hermione grew even redder as she realized that Professor Snape was now awake, and she was practically under his bed.

"Severus!" The Healer practically squealed to see him awake, and Hermione felt uneasy pangs of jealousy. _She didn't act like that when I came 'round,_ she thought, but dismissed this. It sounded like Severus Snape was not responding happily to the coddling that he was receiving.

"Poppy, your concern is overwhelming. Pray, stop muttering over me and be quiet."

To which the matron replied with a huff, "You can't blame me for being pleased to see you back with us, Severus."

"That's no excuse to disregard the comfort of your patients," was the stringent reply. "Though, I do understand your lack of concern for those patients who like to crawl on the floor and soil the nice clean gowns you provide. What disrespect to our hard-working laundry elves, Miss Granger."

-31-

It had been many years since Hermione was so humiliated.

 _Actually, the last time was probably when the sodding arse told me he 'saw no difference' in regard to my teeth_ , she acknowledged.

She briefly considered holding her tongue, but then she realized that A) she wasn't enrolled in Hogwarts this year, and therefore couldn't be expelled, B) even if she was, Severus Snape's authority in the Hogwarts staff was probably nil, and C) she'd bloody saved his life, and he didn't even have a thank-you for her.

It was at this point that Madam Pomfrey's strong arms lifted her from the floor.

"Oh! M'dear, don't you think that you'd be warmer under the bedclothes?"

The nurse's bemused expression meant that Hermione was safe from interrogation. _She probably knows how hard I've been working to try and regain use of my limbs_ , the Gryffindor thought. Relieved at not having to explain herself, Hermione decided to save the scathing replies to Snape that were congealing in her brain.

-32-

As soon as Hermione settled, she turned herself to regard the bitter Potions Master and the nurse. The latter bit her lip, readjusted her glasses, and whispered softly to her patient, only to receive a terse rebuke:

"Harrumph! As if I _hadn't_ noticed."

The Healer just sighed and cast a few spells over Severus' limp body. Her lips moved as she produced streams of pleasantries, but she never seemed to look at her patient's face.

"I'm not interested in your sympathetic bleating," the ex-Headmaster declared. "Just set me to rights and be gone already."

"Be quiet, love," hushed the matron, her wand wavering. "You're a fine piece of work."

Hermione watched Pomfrey's movements, noting that the woman seemed unusually distracted. Pomfrey wasn't the best Healer in the wizarding world, but she was usually in better form than she was now while operating around Snape. Her shaky hands, her flighty concentration, and her obsequious attitude must mean _something_ , but what that something was, Hermione couldn't guess for certain.

-33-

Soon Pomfrey sniffed and stepped away from the immobile potions master. "That's all for now, luv, now don't fret that I'm leaving you."

"I'll be grieving like Tristan," quipped the man, grumpy. His voice shifted to falsetto. "'Why then, God reward you, Iseult!'"

"Shush," scolded Pomfrey, though her indifference was reflected in the fact that she didn't even look at him.

"Don't flatter yourself: you're not the handsome, dashing young warrior," Hermione muttered to herself, "when you had to have a _girl_ save you."

She didn't count on his ears picking that up, but she heard a snort come from the other bed.

"A _girl_ indeed, Miss Granger," the taciturn man responded as Hermione's cheeks turned scarlet. "You even bear the trademark of naivety."

-34-

Hermione eschewed acknowledgment of her shame, and refused to respond to her former Professor. Because he seemed indifferent, or perhaps because he perceived the metaphorical ball was in her court, he didn't carry conversation either.

The silence was neither amicable nor aggressive, but still noticeable. And Hermione definitely noticed it.

Out of loneliness and boredom she thought a lot about him; Hermione herself was so weary of the hospital wing that she eagerly chatted with anyone who came near her. When there was no people handy, she took to pretending there were. It was comforting to talk to _someone_ , she thought as she closed her eyes against the stained-glass sunlight that streamed through the window, even if they weren't really there. Sometimes she addressed the spirit of Ron, for she knew she loved him, and she also talked to Harry.

She half-expected her imaginary discussions with the Boy-Snape-Had-Always-Hated would elicit a response from her bedridden fellow, but they didn't, even when she made oblique allusions to Snape to purposefully goad a reaction. Either the man didn't notice or didn't care, and both explanations bothered her for some reason.

Often, she questioned his motives in keeping to himself. To quarantine one's self behind an impenetrable barrier, to dismiss the warmth and happiness and reality of the earth's daily cycles, to have only the company of an authoritative healer six times a day for fifteen minutes--she couldn't understand why he'd want to do that. She understood the value of solitude, knew what it was to want 'alone-time', to contemplate and dredge dark oil from inner wells, but in her current condition the grass looked greener elsewhere. She wasn't the type to be content with what she had.

Then again, soon she remembered that she was trying too hard: Snape was the greasy bat of dungeons, and everyone knew that he preferred to wallow in dark dreams of misanthropy. Still, Hermione wished often that her ex-Professor would throw up the veil, would tell Pomfrey to remove the curtains, would allow her to see and talk with him.

-35-

Snape's tea-tray clinked and clanked as Pomfrey stepped from behind the black curtain. With the toe of her sensible shoe, she closed the gap she'd created to admit her bulk, and she plodded to her office. Hermione heard one last _clunk_ as the Healer placed the tray in the dumbwaiter, and then one heavy _thwump_ as the Healer settle into the worn leather chair (that stretched its arms wide to accommodate her).

It was three weeks after Hermione had awoken, and she was seized with the lust for motion. The infirmary was so quiet, now that much of the healing of the castle was over, and since she had no-where she could go with her useless limbs, her heart and brain scraped at the bars of the cage of tedium.

Books were not much help. She could read only so much, and it was far easier to concentrate with the hubbub of daily life around her. In the disconcerting silence, she couldn't hear anything but a buzzing in her ears.

What was even more maddening was the fact that there _were_ people nearby. Just two, most of the time. Pomfrey was reclusive and preferred to keep to her magazines, smoke the occasional pipe when it was cold at night, and tended to her patients as it suited her. A timer woke her from her frequent naps to check on Hermione and Snape.

Yes, Snape was still there too. Hermione felt just a little bit irked at the fact, if only because she never heard a word out of him. He had cast--how she had no idea, but it was when Pomfrey wasn't there, so he must have done it wandlessly--a permanent _Muffilato_ around his bed, so if he talked, Hermione couldn't tell. She'd never hear a word. For all she knew, he was talking to himself all the time.

The buzzing irritated Hermione to no end, and sometimes she wondered if it was just from the _Muffilato_ or if it were from her own ears straining for something, anything that didn't involve the clattering of wooden hospital placesettings, Pomfrey's daily habits, and her own breathing and eating and page-turning.

-36-

One day, a month after having awoken, Hermione opened her eyes to meet the morning light with her usual frustration. However, as she adjusted to the state of wakefulness and blinked away the tears that formed from the brightness of the infirmary, she realized something was different. Something was missing.

She breathed in and out; no, the faint scents of dust, tobacco, antiseptics and stale tea weren't new. Neither was the altogether too-cheerful sun poking its beastly little nose in the leaded window, or the muted streams of prism rainbows from said window.

Hoping against hope that the change had to do with her own physiological self, Hermione attempted to lift her useless leg and arm. This was to no avail.

She heard Pomfrey's timer chime, and the resulting clomping of the good nurse's shoes across the marble floor, and she realized what the difference in her environment was. The _Muffilato_ that surrounded Snape's bed was gone.

Straining with curiosity, Hermione closed her eyes and isolated the sounds she heard. Pomfrey pacing around in her office, the faint laughter of a group passing the Hospital Wing, the heaviness of her own breathing and the grinding of her teeth...

But nothing whatsoever from beyond the black curtain.

-37-

She couldn't understand it. If Snape had been moved, then, by George, she ought to have heard it.

 _They must have done it right in the middle of the night_ , she reasoned. _That or very early this morning. He was here last evening._

Feeling a bit curious, she propped herself up on the bed with her good arm, awaiting the arrival of her breakfast. It wasn't that she was unduly concerned--there was no doubt in her mind that Snape was in no danger under the capable hands of Madame Pomfrey--but she still felt a little bit protective.

 _After all, I did save his life. It would be a shame if he never got to 'live' in the real sense again_ , she thought.

"Time for your nerve analysis," Pomfrey said, entering her curtained domain with the warm, apologetic look of an astute poodle that has tracked mud onto the nice clean floor. "Spit-spot, spit-spot," she gently clucked as Hermione lingered over the porridge, "there'll be plenty of time to fill your stomach once I've finished your morning ablutions."

The process of emptying bed-pans and testing her body for new developments was tedious, but finally it was over, and Hermione ventured to ask about the Potions Professor.

"When did Professor Snape vacate the premises, Pomfrey? Did he take a turn for the worse...and have to go to St. Mungo's?" It hadn't happened before, but Hermione assumed that it was the most likely prospect.

"Why, no, dear, he's still here," Pomfrey said in some confusion, drawing Hermione's curtains down and stepping over to her other patients' bed. "Lawks-a-mussy, why ever would you think that..."

As she said this, however, she drew back the black curtain and gasped.

-38-

"Why, blow me down with a feather!" exclaimed Pomfrey, astonished and incredulous. "Severus!"

He lay there, unmoving, with a thin veneer of what looked like cellophane stretched across his blue face.

"Good God!" Hermione echoed, watching as Madame Pomfrey feverishly extricated the plastic from her patient's visage and began to pump his chest vigorously.

"Where on _earth_ did that stuff come from?" the nurse panted, thoroughly flustered. "Suffocation is...one of the three major causes of death...in ultraparalysis cases...like his...I would never...let it...float into this...wing!"

Finally, after performing an admirable CPR on her patient, Madame Pomfrey's efforts were rewarded when Snape coughed and sputtered.

"What on _earth!"_ Pomfrey demanded, putting her hands on her fleshy hips in an authoritative manner. "Severus, why did you not call out? It's ridiculous, that's what it is. I'm always within earshot; what happened? Why did...?"

Her question died on her lips as an almost-imperceptible sob arose from the survivor's throat.


	4. Chapter 4

  
\- 39 -   
"It isn't your fault," Severus gasped. He sounded weary, exhausted, forlorn. "An elf brought it to me. I don't want to be here anymore." 

Hermione was shocked. She'd never heard the man sound so pained, so vulnerable, so sad. 

"Oh, come now," Pomfrey offered, and Hermione watched as the healer drew the curtains back for privacy, casting a thankful glance towards the younger patient. "It isn't as bad as all that, Professor..." 

"There's no fucking *point* anymore, Poppy." Severus seemed to have abandoned all efforts towards achieving privacy, or perhaps he simply had forgotten about the Muffilato spell. "I don't want this life. Hell, I didn't want this life when I had use of all my limbs. And now look at me. 

"A fucking invalid. Useless. A burden on society. All my life I had to fight for my right to fucking *breathe.* And now I can't fight anymore. Therefore breathing is no longer an option.

"I have no use. There's no justification for my survival. There's no reason I should be here - except the bloody selfish insistence of a Gryffindor cunt who couldn't be bothered to ask if I *wanted* to be fucking *saved.*" 

"You know she's on the ward, Severus?" Poppy's tone was gentle but firm. 

"I don't *fucking* care." 

  
\- 40 -

"You're going on antidepressants." 

"The fuck I am." 

"Look, Severus." Poppy certainly didn't take lip from the likes of Severus Snape. Hermione listened with bated breath and tear-stained cheeks. 

"Look. I know you are going to have a period of adjustment. No one can go through what you've been through without losing their mind a bit. But bloody hell man, the girl saved your life. You don't have to be fucking cruel about it." 

"You dodged the question," was all he said in response. 

"There is no question. And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue about it, too." 

With that, the black curtain shuddered open and closed. Pomfrey thumped heavily out of the ward, and after a few minutes Hermione scented the faint smell of cannabis smoke from the healer's office. 

Odd, that. It semed these events spooked her more than she let on. 

Hermione didn't hear the Muffilato buzzing anymore, and instead heard the quiet rocking of Pomfrey's chair and the gentle respiration of a man trying to weep in silence. 

  
\- 41 - 

After Severus' thwarted suicide attempt - for, as Hermione realized later, that's exactly what it had been, though no one had said the word *suicide* - she paid careful watch to the sounds of his breathing. 

He had stopped talking altogether, instead just grunting in gratitude whenever Pomfrey spoon-fed him. Hermione, for her part, was coming along well in her increased mobility. Pomfrey led her through physical therapy exercises that permitted her to utilize her better half to transfer into a wheelchair. 

"You aren't well enough to be on your own quite yet," the healer admonished strongly whenever Hermione gave a rueful glance at the door of the infirmary. "But we are coming along nicely, my dear, and soon enough you'll be out and about with your friends once more." 

*It will be different, though* Hermione reasoned to herself. She couldn't think of a single other person in the wizarding world who was a wheelchair-user, and that observation made her feel very strange. What would that mean for her? Was wizarding society the kind that shunned people for using assistive devices? It was the kind of thing she'd never given a thought to in the Muggle world. 

She wondered if Severus had also thought about that - and his apparent hopelessness about his condition worried her. Would everyone forget about her because of this? 

\- 42 -   
Her worries about being forgotten soon faded as Harry and Ron came bouncing in like enormous dogs, their arms full to the brim with candies and sweets. 

"We've got *loads* to tell you," Harry insisted, and he showed Hermione a photograph of himself and Ginny. "First off, we're engaged." 

"That's wonderful!" Hermione answered, feeling the last petals of her long-standing crush on Harry finally drop off the flower. They'd been wilting throughout the past year or two as Harry mooned after Ginny, but this finally wrapped up any lingering questions. "I am so happy for you both." 

"And 'Mione," Ron breathed toothily, shyly, and awkwardly, "We can be close behind, if you'll have me." 

"Don't tell me that's a proposal, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said with a severe look down her nose. "I expect the very least amount of effort from you, but nothing so casual as this." 

"Naw," Ron shrugged with embarrassment, "You'll know it when you see it." He sounded awfully dodgy, but all the better. Hermione wasn't entirely sure what life would look like for her once she recovered stability. Moreover, while that hot and heated kiss took place for all to see, in the cold light of day she wondered whether she would be all the wife Ron wanted her to be anyway. 

She felt rather manipulative - even *Slytherin,* perhaps - when she suggested "I would hope for nothing short of spectacular from you, Ron." 

This obviously hit him square in the feelings, and he didn't make a peep more during their visit. 

\- 43 - 

Severus' silence went on and on, and on. Hermione's tenure in the ward was coming to a close, but she felt reluctant to leave. 

To be honest, it felt like Pomfrey was dragging her feet on the matter as well. 

"I must admit," Hermione spoke softly, when she heard Severus safely snoring, assuring them a tiny bit of privacy. "I feel like I am needed here in some way beyond healing *myself.*" 

"I wouldn't disagree, my dear," Poppy voiced, casting a nervous glance towards the black curtain opposite. "But it isn't your job. It isn't your battle. It isn't your place." 

"Maybe not," Hermione whispered, feeling relieved that Poppy had some sense of the same thing. "But I think it *is* what I need to do." 

"I would never suggest it to anyone in your position," Poppy said, and sighed. "You're a student. You sacrificed your seventh year to ensure all our lives were spared. And more, besides." She looked at Hermione with deep, sorrowful eyes. "There's no guarantees that healing is even possible, at this stage. His chances are pretty bad, in my opinion. Professionally, I don't recommend it." 

"But personally?" Hermione could read between the lines clearly. The older woman was soft and kind and sad in the way she looked at the younger witch. 

"Personally," Poppy uttered, in a just-audible whisper, "I would say, trust in your Gryffindor heart, my dear. Your courage to know the right thing to do and to do it? That is the strength of people in your house.

"And so," Poppy concluded, standing and offering Hermione a gentle pat on the shoulder, "whatever it is you would like, or need, just say the word and I will arrange it." 

Then the healer left, and Hermione's powerful curiosity seemed to tick just a bit faster. 

  
\- 44 - 

"So, Granger." 

The words were the first he'd spoken since just after his suicide attempt, and Hermione was almost unsure whether or not she'd actually heard them. She had been reading and nodded off, and when she heard her name she started. 

"Granger?" 

It was as if he hadn't been silent for weeks on end. 

"Professor?" Hermione rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and closed her book. "I'm here. Do you need something?" 

"Are you going to marry him?" 

The words pierced the air, electrifying it, making all of her hair on her arms stand on end. 

"You mean, Ronald?" Hermione was full of a range of emotions - joy, impatience, and awkward embarrassment. And this last won out. Definitely *not* the feelings of a future fiancee. 

She paused, consdering her words carefully. "Between us, Professor, I don't think so." 

"You'd better not." The thin threat was almost a hiss. "He doesn't deserve the likes of you. And to top it off," he went on, as if he couldn't allow a compliment to go unsandwiched between two insults, "Your children would have the *worst* hair." 

"Hm," Hermione responded thoughtfully, her ears prickling with delight at this deeply *personal* interest he seemed to have in her life. Not wanting to startle him by saying so, she offered, neutrally, "Thanks for the comment." 

All he did was harumph grumpily, but that didn't stop Hermione's cheeks from blushing with delight. 

  
\- 45 -   
The summer was coming to a close, and the school year was fast approaching as August came around. Hermione spent most of her days in her chair, getting used to the methods of ambulation that were within her power. 

The antidepressants seemed to be working on Snape, too, because he seemed far less weepy than before, though his deep and unabiding grumpiness did not budge. 

Also, both of them were looking a lot healthier. Pomfrey had laid off the convalescence food and now brought them regular meals from the kitchens, though insisted they mind not to overeat since their bodies were so much less mobile. 

Neither was particularly paying attention to her instructions, and thus they'd both gained perhaps a stone apiece. Not to mention, Harry and Ron kept Hermione in abundant supply of snacks from Honeydukes and beyond. Hermione felt more than a little guilty, and silently put about half her received treats on Snape's bedside table. 

Strangely, she never saw him eat them, but all the wrappers ended up in his wastebasket. 

"It's sad how little I have to look forward to," Snape muttered one morning as he caught her sharing another basket of sweets. "I never was much one for food. But it's not as if Poppy will turn a blind eye to firewhiskey." 

"I never took you for a drunkard," Hermione said pleasantly, trying not to meet his gaze as she distributed her gifts. 

"And *I* never thought I would run to fat," Severus groaned, "but here I am, becoming my father." 

Without saying another word, she watched as he picked up and unwrapped a chocolate frog - wandlessly and without moving either hand. 

He seemed to sigh once it was in his mouth, and Hermione was beyond impressed. She didn't say so, though, instead just picking up her one-handed knitting apparatus with a little smile on her face. 

He was starting to trust her, it seemed. 

\- 46 - 

"Are you planning on going on the veranda, Granger?" 

"I am, Professor," she'd responded with a smile - lopsided these days due to the paralysis on one side. 

"I told you, stop calling me that." His biting tone made her wince, but he was magically levering himself into his own wheelchair, not withdrawing into a moody phase. "I don't know *what* I am anymore, but at the very least I *know* I am not a professor." 

"Fine, Snape." Hermione rolled her eye (the one that rolled, anyhow) and she held his chair steady as he collapsed into it, heaving with exhaustion. 

"Is this a life?" he begged, his eyes wide and searching as he tried to find some hope in the young witch's face. 

"It gets better, bit by bit," Hermione encouraged, her heart melting as his dark hair fell forward across his face. It was a telltale sign that he was trying not to weep, she knew now after months of close proximity. Instead of saying anything, she simply guided his chair out to the veranda alongside hers, as was coming to be their routine. 

It was nice having a routine with him. Strange, because anytime her mind wandered back to what her life had been before her injury, she was astonished anew at this intimacy they shared. 

He scoffed, "Easy for you to say," but did not argue further. 

\- 47 - 

The final days of summer were upon them, and Hermione was eager to complete her Hogwarts education. It was mostly independent study, since her seventh year was not completely a loss. McGonagall had offered to give her the final exams before Christmas hols, which thrilled Hermione and terrified her at once. Neither of the boys was on that schedule - they were back to the beginning of seventh year, both of them, and honestly that was fine for them. They were also distracted by their burgeoning careers - Harry being recruited for auror training, and Ron was on track to becoming a journalist for the Daily Prophet, to Hermione's surprise. 

Ron had taken her gentle let-down a little too well. He probably didn't take it too seriously, and was probably scheming how to re-win her affections half-heartedly, out of a sense of obligation. All the while, she knew from Harry's good-natured ribbing, Ron was actually getting a lot of tail. For once, he was most princely bachelor in all of Wizarding England, now that Harry was off the market. Harry was an amazing wingman by all accounts. 

Since her conversation with Ron giving him her blessing on these ventures with other women, Snape had been remarkably forthcoming in his conversations with her. 

Indeed, their bit of back and forth had blossomed into actual conversations, which made Hermione's heart sing a little more brightly than was proper for a student-teacher relationship. But then again, he wasn't her teacher anymore. It wasn't clear if he'd ever teach again, actually. 

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself," Snape complained bitterly as Hermione prepped her self-study syllabus. It sounded like his same old whinge, to which she generally demurred and sympathetically tutted. But then he went on, "You at least have your whole life ahead of you. But me? I've wasted the better part of it just trying to undo the shit I fucked up in the first bit. What did you intend for me when you saved my fucking life, Granger?" 

It was the first time he'd referenced that particular gruesome detail in a long while. Hermione realized this merited more than a half-arsed "mhm" while she scratched her quill across parchment. 

"I... I wasn't thinking, Snape," she offered with some apology, and sighed. "I certainly had no idea it would turn out like this." 

"*I* did," Snape hissed with gritted teeth. "*I* did." 

The rage that bubbled beneath the surface was somewhat terrifying, and Hermione felt as though she had slipped back to the bottom of a dark well after having climbed tooth and nail upwards. 

"I'm deeply sorry," Hermione replied, trying to prevent an onslaught of tears. "I don't know what else to say. I guess I messed it all up for you, didn't I." 

He didn't agree, aside from a gentle 'harumph' type of sound. But it was softer than she expected - possibly becaus he could hear the tightness in her voice. 

"I know you were acting in the way you thought best," he acknowledged, his tone firm. "That's the problem with you, Granger - you think you have all the answers. You don't *listen.*" 

The words, lobbied so effortlessly towards her, happened to strike a chord with her. 

"Point taken," she uttered, and she did then burst into tears. She did her best to hide her sobs, but then came a surprise. 

"I must retract that," Snape said, the sharpness of his voice dulled substantially. "That was unfair. You obviously *do* listen, Granger." 

This only opened the floodgates wider, as Hermione was stunned and panicked by the uncharacteristic personalness of his comments. 

He made it even worse when he added, with a voice far too sad: "Don't take the lashings-out of an old man personally. You are very kind to tolerate my strong opinions loosely held." 

They didn't talk the rest of that day, but the space between them changed viscerally after this conversation. 

\- 48 - 

"You're getting downright *podgy,* my dear Severus," Poppy Pomfrey scolded as she ran vital signs. It was the middle of September, and indeed Severus had filled out from a measley 63 kilograms to a robust 90 kilograms. 

"Hmph." Given how much of a sore spot this was for him, Hermione winced. She also was plumper than ever, but the weight gain wasn't quite so marked with her given her greater mobility. Also her upper arm had never been stronger, that was for sure. 

"Only teasting, ducks," Poppy clucked, "the antidepressants are doing their job -and then some." Severus didn't respond, giving her a frigid silence to indicate his disapproval. 

"I am starting to think there's no reason for you to be in the hospital wing, either of you." Poppy seemed sad at this, while Hermione was terrified beyond reason. 

What would happen with Snape, she wondered helplessly. They'd spent so much time together, and developed this strange closeness. Would they just snap back to being basically strangers? That possibility seemed a miscarriage of justice. 

It made her immensely relieved when Snape pointed out the obvious: 

"And how, Poppy, do you think we are supposed to navigate all those ruddy moving stairs?" 

\- 49 - 

For better or for worse, the pair seemed to have latched onto each other. Without sharing so many words on the topic, Hermione was becoming deeply acquainted with the way that Severus thought and felt. And oddly, he also was doing the same with *her.* 

Was it just bonding due to the shared trauma? Hermione wasn't sure, but she felt like it was more than that. She was scared that's all it was, for him - because in truth, she felt more than somewhat romantically inclined towards her former professor. 

While she was not a person who was prone to sudden fancies, she also was beginning to feel a pressure growing in her heart every time Severus spoke. She hung on his every word, and found herself craving the little crumbs of approval he gave her. 

And, she found herself giving him a lot more positive regard than she'd ever guessed another person could need. He just soaked it all in, like a starved animal. 

One time, he'd been complaining about his ineffective limbs and he made some self-deprecating comment of "And I couldn't even *die* properly - I fucked that up too." 

Hermione had turned directly towards him and glared menacingly in his direction until he turned his eyes downward. Then, as he sat in abject silence, she raged, "Severus Snape, you put that bloody hyperbole away right this instant." 

"FIne, Min- Granger," he muttered, looking as chastened as if McGonagall had scolded him. Then, almost teasingly, with an unhealthy dose of black humor, he said, "You're right, *you* fucked that up for me. I'd almost forgot that." 

"Don't let it happen again," Hermione responded in kind, but found herself shaking despite her boldness. She was grateful he was facing the window, away from her, so he couldn't see. 

\- 50 - 

Severus was also looking more handsome than he'd ever looked before, the added weight giving his sallow anemic appearance more color and volume. It filled out his frame nicely, and made his body irresistably plush and comfortable-looking, with just the tiniest curve of the belly that made Hermione's single functioning knee weak. He was looking much younger, too, and it shocked Hermione to realize how much a few pounds could alter a person's appearance so profoundly.

Also: somehow Poppy had fixed his long-standing hair problem. Much to Severus' consternation, she applied *conditioner* and it oddly made his scalp less oily. (Somehow this was the solution she had for Hermione's hair as well - but the difference was not as striking.) She had some explanation for the esthetic chemistry but Severus didn't seem to care about that - still he grudgingly promised her that he'd continue the routine. That, and lotion - which Poppy scrupulously applied on a nightly basis, trying desperately to erase the dark circles that seemed etched beneath his eyes. Hermione found great private amusement at watching the matronly healer rub at Severus' face, scrubbing his supple cheeks up and down while he complained. 

Poppy seemed eager to provide these tender ministrations to Severus like a frantic mother doting on her university boy at home on a weekend. But there was only so much she could do to justify their current space on the ward. 

"I'm running out of reasons to keep you both here," she kept saying, looking at the two of them as if hoping they might come down suddenly with a severe case of Crumplehead Croup. 

"And I ask you again," Severus kept responding, eyes steadily staring. "Where are we supposed to go, exactly?" 

"We'll have a plan," Poppy insisted, "I just need to talk to the headmistress." 

And with that, the subject was always dropped. 

Strangely, it felt like both Snape *and* Poppy were conspiring to keep the pair in the hospital wing. 

Not that Hermione was complaining - not one bit. She rather enjoyed her life of the present moment - long days studying, sharing sweetmeats with Severus, and bickering about odds and ends. 

It was too delightful to last, she knew, but she'd enjoy it in the meantime. 


	5. Chapter 5

Time seemed to be on her side, however.

Hermione found herself in Poppy’s office one muggy afternoon while Snape dozed off.

“Let me help with Snape in some way,” she pleaded, her functioning hand outstretched to Poppy. “I’m sick to death of sitting reading.”

“Imagine that,” Poppy said dryly, pushing her glasses on top of her head and rubbing her eyes.

“And moreover,” Hermione went on, her argument neatly laid out, “there hasn’t been another patient for weeks, and everyone around us is trying to make things right after the war. I have been thinking about work that I that I might actually be able to do, and I-“

“-Generally I would let you finish, love,” Pomfrey said, but she seemed pained. “But I do have a bit of headache. So pardon me if I interrupt you and say...”

(Hermione’s perception of the pause was three times longer than it actually was.)

“...Yes.”

“Oh THANK YOU ever so much,” Hermione cried, offering her hand to the healer with gratitude.

“It will have to be in the role of an apprentice,” Poppy said, and added with a sly smile, “Else Severus will have a cow.”

“Understood.” And so, together the girls schemed.

——————

“She’s my apprentice now, Severus,” Poppy told the red-faced man who seemed about to go apocalyptic. “It isn’t as if she is going to be fondling your naughty bits. Just changing the bedpan, helping you shave, helping me take your vitals, and so on.”

“And thus I become Granger’s guinea-pig,” Severus growled, glaring at both women. He seemed unsure which of them he ought to be angriest with.

“Far from it, Snape. You know that I never take an apprentice unless they demonstrate practical skill in the subject.” Poppy rolled back her sleeve to show a healing suture on her hand. “I cut myself cleaning up a fallen bottle in the dispensary today. I needed stitches. Miss Granger’s work is quite good even though it was done with her non-dominant hand.”

Severus, apparently trusting his own judgment of such things, focused his eyes on Poppy’s injured hand. “A bit loose,” he murmured, but said nothing else.

“But more than satisfactory,” Poppy said with a smile, “particularly for her first time. With her non-dominant hand, again.”

So saying, she waved at Severus with her non injured hand, as if to shut up any further protest.

“It is settled,” she announced, and she began to give Hermione detailed instructions while Severus groaned aloud.

——————-

“If you’re going to be my caretaker,” Severus grumbled the next day, once Poppy has returned to her own office, “I insist that we speak as little as possible about what you are doing and why.”

“Agreed.” Hermione took her wand and carefully raised it, lifting Severus into the air so she could clean things properly. “What would you have us talk about?”

This seemed to puzzle him, and he remained silent for some time. She thought he had simply decided not to answer, but then suddenly he said, “Read aloud from The Prophet before morning ablutions, if you would be so kind.”

This last phrase felt almost sincere, despite the layer of sarcasm that cloaked it.

“So it will be,” Hermione said, imitating his evasive, formal language.

He frowned at her with a tiny hint of displeasure, noticing that she was slightly mocking him, but once Hermione grabbed the paper, he closed his eyes to listen.

———

They exhausted the newspaper’s offerings rather quickly.

“The rest is trite rubbish,” Hermione announced with a grimace. “Thirty one ways to use butternut squash for suppers. ‘Help Me Helga! Advice for the Heart-Hungry and Hopeless’ by Helga Hearthrob. Some nonsense speculating about whether or not Ginny is pregnant. Ugh,” she commented at this last one, still not used to seeing people she knew and loved in the paper. 

“Then let’s move on to other reading material,” Severus drawled, his eyes closed. He seemed more relaxed than she ever had seen him, and it was strangely reassuring to see the way his chest rose and fell with his slow breathing. “Something less dreary. Something escapist, I think.”

Hermione rolled up and tossed the paper into the rubbish bin, then spun over to the infirmary bookshelf.

“I have Philosophiam Spectat Potionibus,” she offered, not sure what might tickle his fancy. It was one of the few things on the shelf that was not targeted towards children. “Or perhaps Focus in the Fracas: Maintaining Your Edge in Defensive Magic.”

“I said escapist,” hissed Severus, sounding miserable.

“It’s mostly fiction,” Hermione apologized, looking carefully over the titles. She noticed a tiny twinge in the back of her eye-socket that she’d been feeling for a few months, and she made a mental note to check and see if she might need glasses. 

“That would be suitable.”

She turned to him and quirked an eyebrow. “I would have pinned you as a strict academic reader,” Hermione mused.

“I need to branch out.” Severus’ voice was dark. “Generally, my reading is oriented towards practical knowledge applicable to something on which I am working.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Given my condition, nonfiction will simply be an exercise in torture. What do you think I could do in my present state?”

“I mean,” Hermione pointed out, “your wandless skill is very strong.”

He just frowned in response, clearly dismissing the suggestion. “I just want to forget where the sorry state I am in, for a while,” he demanded, his voice tense. “Is that too much to ask, Miss Granger? Or must I give up control of my mind as well as my body?” His eyes were hard, but she saw the depths of pain within them as well. 

“I... I am sorry.” She hadn’t thought it would be so important to him, but she didn’t need to be told twice. A moment of respectful pause ensued, then she suggested, “Here’s one of my old favorites, though it is a Muggle work. E. Nesbit?”

“What is it called?” She glanced at him, and saw his eyes were closed. 

She smiled faintly to herself, expecting a rejection. “The Railway Children.”

“Acceptable.”

Surprised, but delighted, Hermione rolled back to his side and began to read.

  
He sighed, almost as if relieved. “Perfect.”

———

It soon became evident how much Severus enjoyed listening to Hermione read aloud. She never would have guessed him to be the fanciful type, but they went through story after story of fiction, primarily Muggle in origin but with healthy doses of wizarding writing as well.

He never would have admitted it right out, but whenever her voice would tire and she would pause, he would open his eyes and gaze at her with such sadness that she would do her best to keep reading for another few pages at least.

She offered to put a reading spell on, when she was too tired to continue, but he would always shake his head and make some excuse. “That’s all I can stomach for now,” or “I don’t care for its monotone voice.”

At first she was irritated that he never seemed to want to allow her a break. Her hand would get tired of turning pages. More frustratingly, she hated how to soothe her voice, she had to drink a lot of tea - and using the bathroom was a not insignificant chore for her given her own mobility challenges. She caught herself a mild UTI infection, actually, from delaying use of the bathroom.

She complained of such to Madam Pomfrey, who looked at her with such bleak skepticism that she felt sheepish.

“You are being given a gift, Hermione,” the healer said with sadness. “I can cure the infection, that is not an issue. But I hope you appreciate that this is the equivalent of when a stray cat refuses to eat from anyone’s hand but yours.”

The image radically shifted Hermione’s perspective on the situation. Madam Pomfrey did help make some adaptations to the bathroom to make it easier for her to use, and taught Hermione a very useful holding spell for healers that allowed page turning through blinking. These modifications did make the situation much less stressful for her, though in her heart she wished desperately that Severus would reciprocate and read aloud sometimes, too.

———

Aside from their reading, they did not have much conversation. Severus seemed to shift from awake to asleep in a very subtle manner, which meant that if Hermione stopped reading because he looked to be asleep, his eyes would usually shoot open and pierce her with an accusation. But sometimes, she would stop reading and watch him carefully, and be pleasantly surprised that he was actually deeply asleep. 

This was notable, as she came to observe. Now she had more access to Severus’ person than before - and his chart, in fact. With this data, she learned the astonishing fact that Severus’ sleep quality had been extremely poor. Not just recently, but historically.   
In the nearly thirty years’ worth of Poppy’s health data on Severus Snape, Hermione was shocked to see how many times Severus had been admitted to a bed on the ward - and how many times he had left against medical advice, too. 

The healer once had managed to catch him long enough for a proper sleep study, once in the lull between the wars, and she’d given him a diagnosis of chronic fitful sleep. Which, from what Hermione gathered, was basically a catch-all, unspecific diagnosis that captured the fact that he didn’t get enough oxygen during sleep, but also that he didn’t spend very much time in the deeper cycles. He had a high partial-wake rate and he was always slow to enter sleep again after waking. He never entered the most dangerous and acute levels of sleep deprivation, but only by the skin of his teeth according to the data. 

But apparently reading to him was an intervention that made a massive difference to him. She couldn’t help but notice that according to the data - once she started reading to him, in September, the quality of his sleep started shooting up. He was retaining more oxygen, and spending more time in deeper cycles. His partial-wake rate was decreased and his ability to re-enter sleep once disrupted was closer to normal levels than it’d ever been in his entire medical history. 

And, slowly but surely, Hermione began to feel a shift. 

———  
  
By the end of September, Hermione had gotten into a fairly pleasant routine wiht Snape. She woke a little bit on the earlier side, did some physical therapy to build up strength in her right leg and arm (so that she would not lose muscle tone, primarily). Then she did some studying for her exit exam, ate a bit of breakfast, and then woke up Severus to assist him in emptying his bladder, then serving him his own breakfast.

Once she had him situated with his meal, she might ask him to read over a study guide or quiz her on some flashcards, and he would grumblingly comply. When his breakfast was over came the most embarrassing part of the day - the physical cleaning. She had to lift him with her wand, flip him onto his stomach, then carefully check for bedsores, clean his buttocks (thankfully there was magic for that), and then set up a sensory stimulation spell that would run all over his body checking to see if he could feel anything. 

That's when he wanted her to read to him most, actually. They both knew there wouldn't be any sensations anwhere, but the stimulation spell at least helped prevent muscle wasting. And on the off-chance that there was any improvement in any of his nervous channels, the spell did a great job of detecting infinitesimal changes. 

But for the most part, the process was just a reminder of his current physical condition, and in order not to be consumed by grief, it was easier to read. 

It was a gruelling process for them both, particularly hampered as Hermione was by her own limitations. but she had a sense of pride that she had learned so quickly how to do these useful things. 

By then it was usually lunchtime, and they would both eat in relative silence. Severus would ask for more reading afterwards, and Hermione would oblige until he fell into a good napping state. Whereupon she studied some more. 

Then came Madam Pomfrey's check-in, and physical therapy exercises that she did with Severus while Hermione watched. He always looked wan and pale, but less so if she was reading to him. 

Dinner never came quick enough, but finally it would, and Snape would ravage it. Hermione would study more afterwards until Snape would ask for his nighttime reading. 

And then, he would blissfully nod off. 

It was so strange to see her former teacher sleep so much, when he had always seemed a vortex of perpetual motion before the final battle. But the image of the stray cat was deeply imbedded in her mind, now, and it felt to her as if he was just making up for lost time - in sleep, in rest, in food, and even in stories. 


	6. Chapter 6

——— 

"I must admit, Miss Granger," Snape said one morning in the beginning of October, while staring at a poached egg with some suspicion, "That I see a need for us to divert from the routine we have established." 

Hermione was shocked at this, and opened her eyes wide. "Are you dissatisfied with anything I've done?" she asked, feeling cross and annoyed at the idea. She'd been trying her best, but she supposed it wasn't good enough for him. Nothing ever was. Particularly where *she* was concerned. 

"Quite the opposite, in fact," he pronounced carefully, not meeting her gaze. 

This definitely piqued her interest. 

"What?" she asked, putting her fork down. She blinked and accidentally turned a page of her book, and she cursed and blinked the other direction to send the page back where it came from. 

The silence felt long, and quiet; she could have heard a feather touch the ground. 

"I realize I might have been... unappreciative of you and your efforts." 

He seemed to be biting his lower lip, oddly a habit that Hermione recognized as distinctive to her, she'd thought. 

"And so," he continued, closing his eyes to avoid the confrontation and surprise in her face, "I would simply like to say, thank you." 

This stunned Hermione so much she almost began crying, right then and there. Not because she had any particular feelings, per se. But the words seemed to come right out of the big blue sky, and did *not* seem like something Severus Snape might ever say. 

In fact, as she stared at him longer, she wondered if he'd actually said anything at all. He might have been catnapping, the way he rested now, except she knew his signs of sleep far too well at this point. 

She decided to poke at him and see. What was he thinking? She had to know. 

"I don't understand," she said, risking sounding like an absolute dunderhead and risking the whole house of cards just to have that validation again. 

This made him sigh, and he looked to her with eyes that seemed to beg for her to stop. 

She decided to continue playing dumb. She had earned this much. 

"For many things," Severus murmured, drifting with a sniff of reproach. He saw through her gambit. "Most specifically, your kindness. It isn't often that sort of thing blesses... the likes of people like me." 

"Oh." Hermione felt a bit guilty for pushing the question. The answer was far sadder than she anticipated. Her eye began to moisten. 

They didn't speak for probably an hour, after this sensitive dialogue. Hermione felt it was of too much importance to trivialize with mere conversation. 

——— 

There was a difference after this short but momentous conversation. Snape asked Hermione to teach him the spell that held the book aloft, so he could be the one to read aloud. This meant a much more natural and cozy back-and-forth between the pair - and a growth of their closeness. 

It started off subtle, but came to be more obvious with every day that passed. 

First, Snape encouraged Hermione to choose a book - and he didn't grumble a bit when she chose a fairly lengthy tome, the unabridged Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. He just grit his teeth and gave a grimace, but plunged in with both feet. 

At least, up until the point where Hugo was waxing philosophic about the sewer system of Paris. He was slogging through it, clearly becoming bored, before Hermione chuckled and suggested they skip ahead. Snape heartily agreed. 

Second, while Snape was reading, he needed refreshment. The energy required to hold the book up required his full concentration, so he requested (almost shyly) for Hermione to sate his thirst. Madam Pomfrey kept them in ready supply of hot water, so they both sipped tea together in what could only be described as an idyllically domestic companionship. 

He'd pause after a paragraph, and nod indicatively, and Hermione would grasp his cup and put it to his mouth to permit him a sip. He almost always breathed in the steam first, with eyes closed and nostrils flaring ever so slightly, and Hermione could not help but notice the slight bob of his adam's apple as he swallowed. 

Hermione would never have believed it had she not been there to witness it - but the sight was *incredibly* erotic. 

It inevitably left her feeling just the tiniest bit wet, her thighs just the tiniest bit tight, and her mouth just the tiniest bit dry. 

Third, she really, *really* enjoyed the sound of his voice. He had this profound sense of drama that really brought everything together, creating a sense of flow and narrative that made her appreciate the words even more than when she read to herself. And the more he read aloud, the more he seemed to get into the spirit of the thing, using different tones and affects to distinguish between characters. 

As far as how that made her feel? Well, suffice it to say, nighttime was very difficult for her to be in such close proximity to her former professor. 

  
——— 

She wasn't sure how it started, exactly, but she discovered to her chagrin that Snape was incredibly sexually arousing. 

The thoughts floated into her mind unbidden when she closed her eyes at night. The vision of Snape speaking softly in her ear with that sensuous voice of his... The idea of that gentle bobbing at his throat, drawing attention to his long white throat and delicious, softening jawbone... The image of him utilizing his tongue for wandless magic of a completely different kind, particularly on her breasts and between her thighs... 

Oh, it was difficult to look at him without blushing, of a late morning after sleepless dreams! He seemed none the wiser, thank heavens, no matter how vivid her imaginings of the previous night. 

She found herself smiling absently, sometimes, getting lost in her own little fantasies as he read aloud. It was maddening, because she did not truly want the attraction to him. She did not want the inevitable misery of unrequited affections. She certainly did not want to test the boundaries they still had in place, from when he was her professor and she his student. 

It wasn't correct. It wasn't acceptable. And it wasn't really *real,* she told herself. It was just the proximity - he was the single closest physical entity near her with a pulse. It was only natural she would develop these kinds of imaginings. If it had been a sentient coat-rack in the bed next to her, she'd have felt the same. 

Except, of course, she knew in her heart of hearts this wasn't true. There always had been some sense of being distracted by him: his assertiveness, his seriousness, his gracefulness, and his protectiveness. And it made her feel guilty, actually - that all his blustering about him being under her control, her guinea pig had some sense of truthfulness to it. 

It was ironic, wasn't it? She realized this was a bit backwards - wasn't he the one who had more power, in the traditional sense? The male teacher, large and intimidating, terrifying and nearly invincible, whose words had held so much ability to punish or praise? Traditionally he would be the one to take advantage of his position for the purposes of sexual gratification - imagined or otherwise. 

But the scope of their injuries seemed to reverse the differential. Now he was small, unfrightening, and prostrate. His words lacked the venom they previously boasted, and he seemed weak and powerless physically and mentally. Now, Hermione worried about taking advantage of him, even if it was just in her mind. 

The complicated feelings did not ebb, and the closer the two of them seemed to come, the worse they got. 

Hermione didn't know what else to do except to push away these thoughts during the day - though she often caught herself adrift on the ocean of her mind, entertaining foolish but enchanting dreams. 

  
——— 

It was the middle of October when another one of Poppy Pomfrey’s plans came into fruition. Hermione was called to a meeting with headmistress McGonagall and Poppy at Severus’ bedside one autumn morning.

“So I believe I have a solution to all of our problems,” Poppy proposed, seeming nervous but eager to please. “First, to clarify: Severus is stable at this point medically. I am prepared to discharge him home - but living independently for him is out of the question.”

“Not for want of my trying my best with wandless magic,” Severus groaned.

Hermione could not help but smile. Snape's abilities were truly incredible with wandless magic, but there was only so much one could do without the power of a wand (or, more importantly, a hand) to channel energies. To Severus’ great consternation, apparently - he seemed to think he should be able to defy the odds stacked against him. But try as he might, he was unable to successfully remove and empty his bedpan with wandless and handless magic.

“Now, generally I would be in favor of assigning a ministry nursing elf to the task,” Poppy went on, “but at this time, there is a national shortage. There are a number of labor strikes amongst the elves, if you have been keeping abreast of the news.” 

This was familiar to Hermione, since she and Severus did typically read Poppy’s copy of the Prophet. And her heart was more than a bit pleased to know that the elves were beginning to fight for themselves, despite having lost their figurehead and primary organizer, Dobby.

“And I do *not* cross picket lines,” Severus rumbled, his voice firm and just the same as it sounded in the classroom. Though perhaps it was Hermione’s imagination but she felt like there was a little more softness in his tone now. His eyes were not as hard, true enough - and obviously the comfortable settling of added weight around his middle did something to decrease his sharpness as well. 

“And so,” Poppy continued, most of her persuasive attention oddly directed towards Hermione rather than the headmistress, “we must consider human labor as an alternative. And one idea, Hermione, that this labor might be perfect for you.”

Hermione’s eyes leaped up, curious what Snape thought of the idea. He seemed nonchalant, staring without comment at McGonagall. 

"After all," Poppy went on proudly, "you've been working as my apprentice for a month now, and doing quite well if I may say so. And if you've got an interest in becoming a healer, it wouldn't hurt to have a paid live-in situation while you pursue the next phase of your education." 

Hermione half expected Severus to ask, 'paid?' but instead he was just gazing onward into nothingness, but with determination. 

"I'm sorry," McGonagall responded, clearly displeased at the idea. "A student living with a teacher?" 

This made Snape give a curt laugh. "I'm sorry, you still think I can teach?" 

The answer was obvious, and McGonagall looked down with pursed lips. "Is there no one more suitable, Poppy? Surely someone with use of both feet and hands could be of more use to Severus than someone without?" 

This was, of course, a good point - but it was Poppy's turn to laugh. "Minerva, be sensible. A clever girl who Severus already knows and *likes* with one good hand is worth a dozen imbeciles with two apiece." 

The idea that Snape *liked* her - and specifically *liked* her in this role as caretaker - filled her with more pride than Hermione expected. But it also made her somewhat sad, for reasons she could not discern. 

McGonagall rolled her eyes. "And what of her exam preparations? Surely living at Spinner's End will be no good use to her in that endeavor." 

Hermione frowned, not recognizing the name, and looked to Poppy with curiosity, but saw no answers in the nurse's eyes. 

It seemed, honestly, that McGonagall was the voice of propriety - and it was Hermione's turn to take the stand. 

"I could take my exams now, Professor." 

The words hushed everyone present. 

It surprised her to hear Snape protest on her behalf. "Miss Granger," he insisted, "you need not push yourself so far as to-" 

"-I know I *need* not," Hermione said flatly, and smiled at the assembled company. "But to be quite honest, I'm finding it rather dull sitting in the hospital wing while the world is rebuilding outside. I want to be doing something to make it better, despite my limitations. And at least for the short turn, taking care of Snape is a small thing that I *can* actually do. Something that, as Poppy observes, is something I can probably do better than most able-bodied girls of my age." 

McGonagall seemed stunned at the seamless alliance the three of them made, and she muttered something under her breath in Gaelic. 

"Fine," she said, standing slowly. "But Severus, you're paying Miss Granger out of your own pocket. The school cannot codone or subsidize such an unconventional - not to mention morally dubious - expense." 

Snape gave a twisted half-smile. "I expected nothing less, Minerva." 

  
——— 

Once they had returned to the hospital wing, Hermione found questions pounding in her ears, but the words caught on her tongue. 

Snape seemed none the wiser, chuckling to himself as he settled back into his bed. "Morally dubious. Like I've been anything *but.*" 

With some satisfaction, he began to wandlessly scrounge around for some chocolate frogs. Hermione saw his drawer was empty, so she bent and obtained one for him from her stash. It leaped out of her fingers as soon as it was out of the wrapper, and hopped onto the soft bulge of Snape's podgy stomach. 

"Damned thing," Snape grumbled, looking annoyed. Hermione's hand posed awkwardly above the frog, and then came down fast and hard to capture it. But the thing slipped out just before her fingers made contact with it, and instead Hermione's fingers got a handful of Snape's fleshy middle. 

It took her a second to realize that the frog was sitting and looking at them on the bedspread while she groped the sensuous solidity of Snape's jumper - and the doughy softness that settled beneath it. 

"Sorry," she muttered, turning her attention to the rogue confection. In the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Snape color as if with embarrassment. But he didn't say anything, instead watching with interest as she made the complicated maneuver of hoisting herself up onto her good leg, leaning over his bedrail, and snatching up the frog. 

Then, standing upright once more, she brought the frog to Snape's mouth. But the darn thing wiggled so effortfully that Hermione ended up mashing her hand against Snape's lips with it, as he struggled to get the thing enclosed. 

She wasn't sure what she expected, exactly - her fantasies were full of speculation on the question of what Snape's lips were like. But the touch of them surpassed her imagination in regards to their softness. 

And, well, the way his tongue oh-so-slightly grazed her finger? It nearly made her fall with a shiver of delight. 

He chewed the chocolate frog with a stern, reproving stare at her, but once he swallowed, he seemed less menacing. 

"That was a production," Snape said, and his face twitched like he was trying to hide a smile. "Perhaps it's a sign to lay off the sweets." 

Hermione simply shrugged, a lump forming in her throat. She couldn't bear to say anything, either encouraging or discouraging, lest he take it the wrong way. 

But she did feel a small bubble of satisfaction and delight when, while she began to review her study guide for the final exams, she heard Snape writing up a Honeyduke's order with his dictaquill. It seemed that Snape didn't put much stock in divination, either. 

——— 


	7. Chapter 7

A week later, Hermione sat at the desk and laid down her quill. Her last test was now done, for better or for worse. At least she was allowed to use a dictaquill for as much of it as wanted, since her left hand still was not as adept at writing as she wished.

Flitwick collected her papers, looking a pityingly at her.

"You let me know if there's anything I can ever do for you, Miss Granger," he said gravely, and extended a crooked hand for her to shake. "It's been a pleasure having you as a pupil."

"Thank you, Professor." She felt warm under his gaze, as he seemed to be trying to figure her out.

"I never would have expected you to be a healer," he finally said, looking a bit disappointed. "I hope you know that there is much you could do with charms that wouldn't require... you know." He shrugged helplessly, clearly uncomfortable bringing up the issue of her injuries.

She just smiled, and thanked him, and rolled out of the hall to the staircase. Snape was already there, napping in his chair, his cloak over his shoulders and a valise on his lap.

"Snape."

He startled awake, plastering on a harried look.

"How long does it take to finish a single essay?" he grumbled, but as Hermione began to answer, he amended, "Don't answer, Granger. I'm just whinging."

"How was the trip down to the dungeons?" Hermione asked, sensing some emptiness plaguing his mind.

"There wasn't much to collect," he answered, not making eye contact with her. "I don't fit in my old clothes, so I left them in the closet of spares. And I'm not going to be making many potions anymore, so I left all that rot. Most of it is technically Hogwarts property anyways. And my books are all in the rubbish bin, since there's no bloody way for me to do practical magic of any significance."

"I'm sorry," Hermione intoned softly, feeling the overtone of despair.

"Don't be," Snape answered curtly, and he nodded towards the doors of the castle. "I have no past worth being proud of. This is almost a clean slate."

He gave a crooked smile, but the irony was pointed towards himself. "Except I'm still going to be stuck in my mother's house. This time, for good."

But before she could say anything, he turned his head towards her and offered, "Good thinking on utilizing the house-elves' ability to apparate within the castle, Granger. It made this whole business much less difficult."

Hermione did her best not to let the compliment get to her head, but the knowledge that Snape thought any thinking of hers 'good' made her reel. Perhaps it was a clean slate for him, indeed.

———

They got to the house at Spinner's End by portkey, since neither of them had the ability to apparate with their physical limitations. Fortunately the way was paved, without any steps to get in or out of the front door.

"I must warn you, Granger," Snape intoned softly, "this place is as dreary as the Hogwarts dungeons without any of the redeeming features."

"What were the redeeming features of the dungeons?" Hermione couldn't help but ask, but Snape didn't answer; he was busy undoing several layers of nasty wards.

"I suppose I'll have to teach you how to get in and out," he muttered once the way was clear. He nodded at the door, and it opened with an antiquated creak. "We'll have to do some rearranging of the place, to make it more... accessible. That’s for certain."

Hermione nodded and couldn't help but agree as she looked around the space. The cramped entry hall led to a small dining room, which connected the sitting-room with the kitchen. It was a tight fit to get their chairs in there, but they managed. There was a water-closet at least, with a shower, and then the bedrooms were clearly upstairs.

But the whole place was *extremely* Muggle in feel, Hermione was surprised to note. The ancient striped couch and recliner probably had been purchased in the 60s. The television was somewhat newer, but also boasted a laserdisc player. A phonograph, situated next to a tired-looking chaise lounge, seemed the only thing that wasn't covered in a thick layer of dust from disuse. Stacked next to it were at least dozen records - eclectic in title, ranging from Bartok to Bob Dylan.

She helped Snape transfer out of his chair onto a chaise, since he gave her an incendiary glare when she offered to help him into the recliner. He seemed exhausted as he collapsed, breathing heavily and closing his eyes.

She turned on the record player and reset the pin on the edge of the vinyl that was already on the spindle. It croaked to life, and to somewhat of her surprise, it was a psychedelic Beatles album.

Then she saw the empty firewhiskey bottle next to it, and realized this music had been set up for a particular mood. The music seemed to startle Snape, too. His eyes opened wide, then drooped again as he registered what she'd done.

"Find me some water, please?" he gasped quietly, his throat sounding tight.

Hermione nodded and hurried away, but not before she saw tears spilling down his wan cheeks.

It was odd to see someone apparently so moved by 'Strawberry Fields Forever,' but then again, this whole situation was just that: odd.

———

Hermione spent the next several days carefully setting up the house to her satisfaction. Snape posed no objection as she rounded up broken dishes, mending a torn curtain, washing the fragile old glasses from the cupboard, and generally just scrubbing everything with *scourgify* until her fingers blistered.

She even put the recliner out by the rubbish bins, using levitating spell after nightfall, and she rearranged the living-room to be more of a bedroom for Snape. Once the chaise lounge was bereft of dust, it was a bit on the under-stuffed side, but Snape claimed it was comfortable enough to be his bed, so she decided that would be a battle to fight later. For herself, she set up a cot in the kitchen until such time as they found a permanent solution to the stairs.

It was rather sad, to look at the rusty and slightly stained old thing that she'd found in a closet. She had some comforters and blankets from her extended trip to the Forest of Dean with the boys, all packed up in her little magical purse. With these, she spruced up her bed rather nicely, and as it happened she had another two whole sets with her as well. So she went to the living-room and set up Snape's bed with two whole comforters, one below to cushion and one above to warm.

Then, of course, they needed groceries. These were simple enough to procure; a grocer's phone number was posted on the fridge, and a telephone was right nearby. When asked about payment, Snape grumblingly pointed out a chequebook in the drawer by the phone.

"Draw up one for yourself as well," he said with a sigh. "Whatever you think is fair for the month."

"I don't feel comfortable with you paying me before services have been rendered," Hermione said, and he shook his head in response.

"For the month of September," he clarified, sounding resigned.

This was a bit of a surprise, but she was not about to argue with him over something she could so easily solve. She did in fact make up a cheque for what seemed to be a reasonable amount, and he used a dictaquill to sign it. Then she took the cheque and put it away. She didn't want to think about it for the moment.   
———

Days and nights in Spinner’s End were quiet and monotonous. Snape spent a great deal of his time sleeping, as if he had a lifetime’s worth of catching up to do. He woke up to enjoy Hermione’s hearty but nutritious meals, then he would listen to Hermione read until he nodded off.

This left Hermione with plenty of time alone with her books, her thoughts, and herself.

The place quickly grew somewhat oppressive to her, and whenever Snape fell asleep, she would roll outside into the drab late October to have a bit of air around the Muggle neighborhood.

It wasn’t much to look at, the area. The housing was mostly run-down, like Snape’s home, and the neighborhood had a distinctly Thatcherian feel to its parks and walkways. There weren’t any regal trees, just little spindly twigs that seemed frail and undernourished in the clay soil. The playground was peeling with what Hermione knew instinctively was lead paint, and the swing set was in disrepair and marked off with construction tape that had clearly been placed there at least six months ago.

But Hermione appreciated the sadness of the old tires left by the side of the road. She felt quite at unfazed when the wheels of her chair jolted and crunches because she rolled over a pebble or glass. She almost felt at home when she heard the battered wind-chimes that hung on the rails of their neighbor’s balcony, or smelled the scent of pot wafting down the street. 

One of their neighbors had a sun room garden, and Hermione would often stop and stare through the slightly-foggy windows. Irises and amaryllises, narcissi and orchids, roses and even a citrus tree. She would find herself dreaming a strange, idyllic fantasy of herself and Snape, tending that gentle greenery. 

She'd have him seated at a small iron table while he mixed a nitrate solution with handless magic, and she would be using a crutch or some other magical device to increase her mobility. Perhaps a magical leg. And he would glance up at her, as she fed the geraniums, and command her to come and sit with him. She would do so, pressing tiny amorous kisses up and down his jaw while he sighed and seemed to melt with satisfaction. 

It was tiny glimpses of what life *could* look like, that tantalized her imagination. Once in a while, she had the odd thought, such as what would a child of hers and Snape's look like? What if they both had the use of their limbs and could procreate effectively? 

What if they'd found a way to be together before all this happened? 

It was ridiculous thinking. She'd never be with him while he was her teacher. But when she was out of the house, or when she was safely snug in her cot in the kitchen, she indulged herself in imagining what could have been. She justified it by telling herself, she was reversing the power shift that had come between them - she would be the one at a disadvantage, and he would be the one with the strength and influence. That made it more ethical, right? 

———

Whether or not she answered this question, when Hermione returned from her little stroll, her mood was usually elevated. So when when she would return to the little faded house, she would be humming and almost happy. She'd be thinking about how to expand the parlor of Snape's house into a sunroom like the one their neighbor had. She'd be thinking what it would feel like to snuggle into the crook of his neck. The love-light in her eyes would only fade once she caught sight of the real man's face, and then it would just mute to professional cheerfulness. 

And while she couldn’t be certain, it seemed that Snape's mood had shifted as well. He seemed more accepting, and less frustrated by his situation. Though in her mind, she always wondered whether it was geniuine - or simply a tactic, superficially created to hide his true feelings. Feelings that, she imagined, were justifyably miserable.

He almost always woke up while she was gone - no matter how short a time, he usually was awake by her return. And there was often a bit of a smile in his eyes as he would grumpily murmur “hullo,” and inquire after the time. 

Which, at this point, neither of them actually cared about. Time didn't matter anymore to them; it was just a way to mark the hours that passed, a tiny sparkling twinkle of conversation that helped maintain the facade that they were living a relatively normal existence. 

She would answer, not meeting his gaze. They’d talk - not about anything in particular. It was just the kind of conversation that, Hermione thought, would be very comfortable between a couple married octogenarians. And frankly, it was a bit insipid, and felt superficial. He would be oddly polite, and she was as suspicious as she might be of a smiling crocodile. But what was she to do?

Instead of talking about the unsatisfying nature of their interactions, she would circumvent the matter and maintain a cheery, professional demeanor. Sometimes, when she did this, his gaze would be especially penetrating. Then her cheeks would color, and she would feel an overpowering intensity as he watched her, like a cat observing a bird. As if he *knew* the kinds of things she thought about on her long walks, and during her nighttime solitude. Instead of connecting deeper with him, she would bustle about the place, almost as if to justify her salary and role. 

Not that he ever made her feel a *need* to justify herself - he barely asked her to do almost anything - but she did have that innate sense of wanting to prove herself to him. There was a powerful feeling in her life that he would never come to peace with his current condition, and how it had come about. 

She imagined his daily existence, from his perspective, was a living hell - one where he was limited in all areas except for speech. He simply couldn't do potions anymore despite his massive talents in that area, nor defensive magic. His figure, one so lithe and svelte, continued to soften as the weeks went on, though slower than before as his body seemed to adjust to an absolutely sedentary life. He wasn't able to teach anymore - though honestly she couldn't imagine he regretted this much! Ultimately, though, the more she thought about it, she had caused the loss of all the sources of ego-reinforcement and purpose that she knew him to have. And here she was, the one most responsible for his broken spirit, being tasked with trying to sustain the most miserable life he could probably conceive. 

And that meant that she would never measure up to his expectations of a caregiver. No person would want the entity who had destroyed their body to be responsible for their welfare, draining the life out of them bit by sadistic bit. 

The more she thought about it, the more she hated herself for having come to Poppy Pomfrey to ask for the opportunity to help Snape. Poppy had twisted her into his life far too brutally, far too totally, far too irrevocably. It was well-intentioned, for Snape did need some companionship. But not from her, she knew in her heart of hearts. Even though he was far more agreeable and less cholicky than he'd ever been in her memory, she knew he was probably masking his displeasure out of simple resignation. He obviously knew it was futile to fight against her good-natured life-ruining talents. 

And he was *paying* her for the privilege, too. 

  
———


	8. Chapter 8

It broke her heart when, at the end of October, he noted that he would need to sign off on her month's salary. Feeling ashamed and desultory, she wrote an amount on the cheque that could be seen as an insultingly low amount. She didn't have the confidence or spirit to ask for more. 

He protested immediately. "This isn't right," he frowned, glaring at her with frustration. 

"Is it... too much?" She knew it was ridiculous to ask that, but she didn't think he would object so strongly. 

"Granger." He closed his eyes, a sure sign of disappointment, and Hermione found something catching at the back of her throat. 

"I'll... be a moment." Without waiting to hear him elaborate, Hermione proceeded to maneuver out of the main room and over to her spot in the kitchen. With a heave, she thrust herself onto her bed and pressed her face into her pillow. The hot wetness of tears squeezed out of her eyes uninvited, and she suppressed the sound of a sob. 

She didn't have a right to be paid for this, particularly the way she kept having warm, full-body fantasies about him when the lights were out. More like, she should be paying *him* for the privilege of living with a person who prompted such naughty, inappropriate thoughts.   
  
———  
  
"You're dismissed, Granger." 

Hermione turned with a start. Snape was in here - he was in his wheelchair, looking pale and pained. 

"What was that?" she asked, not believing the words. 

"You heard me." He seemed firm on the point, and if he was able to cross his arms in the moment, he would have. 

"I... why?" Hermione asked, feeling shocked and dismayed. Despite her self-reproach, she was not expecting this turn of events. 

He really was unhappy, wasn't he. 

"Clearly this isn't working well for you." He seemed disgusted, as if she were a bit of algae. "It's taking a toll on your mental health." 

"I..." 

She wiped her snotty face with her sleeve, then carefully pushed herself up to sit and look at him. 

He had one eyebrow raised, clearly listening but dismissive. 

"Don't bother lying, Granger," he added softly, as she grasped for words. "It doesn't suit you." 

With a smug half-smile he added, "And lest you forget - I *am* a skilled legilimens. Nagini hasn't taken *that* from me, at least." 

These words made her skin prickle. Was he implying what she thought he was implying - was it possible he'd caught a glimpse of her absurd dreams? 

"You aren't fit to be left alone," she said in response. 

He snorted, calling her bluff. 

"Better alone than with company that thinks she's got me under some kind of spell of quiet desperation." 

——— 

"I am not suffering from what you so cheerfully call 'Stockholm Syndrome,' Granger." 

The bleak, abrupt nature of his words made Hermione's heart practically stop. He *did* know what she thought of him. This knowledge made her feel woozy with a sudden rush of adrenaline. 

Then, with a sudden pain appearing in his face, he offered, "Isn't it just remotely possible that I'm not as miserable a git as you thought?" 

Hermione began to realize that he was mostly *hurt* by her impressions of him, distinctly not what she expected. Was it possible he only picked up on the content she thought about... that was more philosphical in nature? 

Was it possible he still didn't know how she truly felt about him?

"I don't really think you're miserable, Professor," Hermione said, uncomfortably shifting back to a term with greater familiarity in her mouth than his name. "I have been afraid that you were. That's quite different, I hope you understand." 

He did seem to ponder this carefully, not even sniping at her for calling him Professor though he did cringe at the word. 

"I appreciate your concern, Granger," he pronounced at last, "but I reassure you. I do not harbor some secret sense of despair. I do not hide a great and tragic displeasure. I have no reason to do so, particularly at this final act of my life. In fact," he offered, somewhat apologetically, "I can't say I've had a more pleasant time of it in years."

——— 

Hermione was incredulous. "Don't tell me you enjoy your life, such as it is." 

"In fact, I do," Snape grimaced, "As I said before, I feel like this is a clean slate, Granger. A fresh start. There isn't the same pressure I'm used to, especially in the past school year." 

He sighed. "It doesn't feel like I'm the final bastion against the grim prospect of a world overrun by evil. I'm being forced to look at life in a different way than I ever have before." 

Then, he stared down at the floor as if steeling himself to tell her something. Finally, he said, "And it is for that reason that I must dismiss you from being my caregiver, Granger. Though that is not to say that I wish you to go, if you would prefer to stay." 

She frowned at this, but Snape didn't see her reaction because he was still focused intently on the floor. 

"I have some reason to believe you might want to," he added, his voice low and...

...Nervous? 

That couldn't be right. Severus Snape was a man whose every action and inaction was calculated thoughtfully and with complete and utter self-control. He had nerves of steel. 

"And what reason is that?" Hermione prompted, feeling her heart pounding faster than she could remember it ever doing in her life. 

Snape swallowed, still staring at the floor. This further cemented the fact that he was nervous. Though why on earth, she had no idea. 

"Because, Granger." Snape sniffed and then, summoning courage, he raised his head and stared back at her, stiffly but immovably. "I have caught glimpses of the things you think about during your strolls out of the house." 

This made her cheeks burn with dismay. Why oh why had she been so careless? 

"And," Snape went on, looking as if he was going to be sick - his whole body was shaking slightly with nervousness - "I'm fairly certain that if you wished to attempt some kind of... courtship... towards someone...such as was possible given the odd and unusual circumstances... it would not be proper for them to be your professor, or your employer." 

Could... could he *really* be saying this? As she registered and processed all the words he uttered, she realized he was practically asking her out. 

Or, more correctly: he was giving her the opportunity to ask him, if she chose. 

——— 

"It would already be skirting the boundaries of ethicality, such as it were," Snape concluded, not looking at her. 

It was rather adorable, how he was practically babbling. Such a strange side of Severus Snape, one she'd never dreamed she'd actually see. It melted her heart entirely. 

"I... accept your dismissal," Hermione breathed, and tremblingly began to stand on her good leg. "And I would like to see, Snape, if I might invite you for dinner. Perhaps. If you were interested." 

"Call me Severus," he responded in a voice that ached with pressure, as if he'd been wanting to say this for some time. She looked at his face, and his eyes were warm and relieved. It was a terribly strange expression for him, but she welcomed it as genuine. "When, and where?" 

"How about right here, right now?" She gestured helplessly towards the ice box. This felt like some kind of trick, but the prospect of this being real was too intoxicating to resist. "I have been thinking of making lasagne."   
  
His next words seemed to rumble out of him with a catlike purr. He looked very satisfied, taking a deep breath and responding, "I would like that, very much, Granger." 

"Hermione," she corrected with a nervous chuckle, and he closed his eyes with an almost-affectionate half-smile. 

"Of course. Hermione." 

And the way he said her name.. it just made her spirit rise to the height of the moon. 

——— 

"Read to me while I cook, Severus?" Testing his name on her tongue felt like tasting firewhiskey for the first time. It was sharp, and bracing, and she felt more than a little bit illicit in using it. 

But he didn't object - why would he? And without comment, but dipping his head so his hair fell softly in front of his face, he went back to the sitting-room for the book they were in the midst of reading. 

It felt so strange and warm in the room. Hermione wiped the remaining wetness from her eyes and stood to approach the stove and oven. Severus returned to the kitchen, the book in his lap and a faint smile on his face. 

That was the oddest thing about this whole damn thing. Severus Snape seemed to have a nice smile. 

Well, perhaps that wasn't quite as odd as the fact that it was directed towards *her.* 

He settled next to her as she gathered her ingredients, and she leaned her left thigh delicately against the arm of his chair. The warmth of his body felt so close, so comforting, so solid. 

She glanced down at him, and he turned his head up to meet her gaze. 

"Hullo," he murmured, his voice like milky sweet coffee. Her heart flooded with excitement, and timidly, she offered him her hand. He nodded with a single gesture, and she wrapped her fingers around his limp ones. They were cool, but soft to the touch, and he leaned his head against her hip to make contact. 

It was the simplest gesture, but the tenderest she could imagine. 

She wanted to kiss him, right then, but she also decided that she preferred to savor the dance. There would only ever be one first kiss, after all, and she wanted to take it slowly, to enjoy and relish it. 

So instead, she touched his shoulder, then resumed her cooking tasks. He raised the book with handless magic and began to read aloud, and they settled into a companionate routine. 

A routine that began to grow and expand in proficiency, delicacy, and harmony as time went on.   
——— 


	9. Chapter 9

  
Two years later, Hermione dropped her quill to the floor with a clatter. "Blast," she muttered, and before she could conjure up enough energy to bend over, the pen had bounced back up like a rubber ball. Ah, it was one of Severus' charmed ones; of course. 

"Granger," Snape bellowed from the sunroom. "Did you already water the 'mums? They're looking a bit peaked." 

"Oh damn," Hermione called, resting on her elbow. "I must have been distracted. I'm so sorry, love." 

"No matter," he responded, just the slightest bit of irritation in his voice. "Your exams are almost over. So long as you feed me, I can feed them." 

"It might be a lot of porridge, this week," Hermione answered, smirking a bit at Severus entered the room. While he remained just as limited as he was two years ago, he and Hermione had developed a great variety of charms and workarounds to give him maximal independence. "I'm afraid my revising timetables are ghastly." 

"Never you mind." Severus approached and laid his head on her shoulder. That simple gesture still made Hermione's heart skip a beat, even after being together for a while. "I could do with some reducing." 

"Mhm." Her tone was neutral. Hermione didn't care to argue too much with him on the subject. Severus had only gotten heavier since they began dating, and truth be told, Hermione liked the weight on him. He no longer looked like a scrawny underfed cat, all skin and bones and sinew. His flesh had more fullness, and even his hair looked healthier now that he had adequate nutrition. 

"You are incredibly beautiful," he murmured, rubbing the tip of his nose along the slope of her neck. 

"I sense you want something," Hermione answered, feeling sensation stirring below her belt. "I'm *busy,* Sev." 

"Just a few minutes," he begged, his voice so sad and plaintive. "I swear, something is happening. Every time, it feels like.... *something.*" 

It probably was an exercise in futility, but Hermione and Severus had been working on various remedies to get at least one of Severus' unmoving limbs to function. The fifth one, in particular. With certain medicinal potions, blood did rush there, but not much tended to happen after the fact. This was enough to sate Hermione's needs, while doing very little for Severus'. But that did not prevent their making *strenuous* efforts in the area. 

"I would, if I was any good at these practical spells." She pressed a kiss upon his cheek and sighed. "I need as much practice as I can manage. But it's just one more semester of this bloody healer's program, then I'll be all yours." 

"That's a load of shite," he said agreeably, pressing a tender kiss upon her upper arm. "You'd be working four-hundred hour weeks if you had it your way." 

"Don't pretend you can't *wait* for me to get out of the house every day so you can tinker about with your inventions." Hermione wanted to push him away, but he was on her right arm, so he had her at a disadvantage. Probably on purpose, sneaky Slytherin. 

"They just pass the time," Severus chuckled. Hermione just shook her head; Severus had gotten extremely good at the dictaquil, and was now using it to draft all manner of inventions (spellwork and otherwise) with the specificity and prolificity of Da Vinci. He had published no fewer than six patents in the past three months - and had at least nine more in final stages of development. 

"Meyers says that last one could land us more money than we could use in a lifetime," Hermione reminded, lifting her left hand and running her fingers through his hair. 

"Witch, I'm surprised you are so financially motivated." There was a playful edge in his voice despite the gripe. 

"Only because I'm going to be working in the nonprofit sector, dearheart," Hermione responded sweetly. "Problems don't solve themselves. Money, unfortunately, is what moves mountains." 

"Of course," Severus grumbled, "I *have* to fall for an activist." 

"Don't act so surprised." Hermione pressed her fingers into his scalp seductively. "You've known me a long time, Snape." 

"So you must remind me." Despite the kvetch in his voice, he kissed her arm again. "Pardon my grumblings. It's nothing personal." 

Hermione began to realize there was something bothering him somehow. "I sense you're nervous about something." She continued to stroke his hair. "Can I help in some way?" 

"I just want to take you to dinner," Severus said. This was a surprise in many ways - not the least of which was that Severus was practically a hermit these days. Hermione could not remember the last time he had left the house. 

There was something in his throat, it sounded like, and Hermione felt her heart skip a beat, then two, then three. 

"Of course," she breathed, feeling the significance heavy on her shoulders, but light in her chest. "Whenever you like, Sev. Wherever you like." 

"At a restaurant," he explained, a bit gruff. "Next Thursday night, after your final exam?" 

"That would be lovely." 

He took a breath. 

"I... won't be able to get on one knee," he said lowly, with pain in his voice. "I suppose that's obvious. I hope that isn't too important to you. If it is, I'll-" 

"-Oh, sweetheart." Hermione turned and shut him up with a tender, gentle kiss. "You are perfect as you are." 

"I never thought I would be here, now," Severus mused, with that small half-smile that was as close he got to actually smiling. Unvoiced, she heard the implication: *being happy.* "And I have you to thank for it," he said. 

And Hermione thought back to that terrifying moment years prior, when she'd been paralyzed by fear, and leaped to action against her better judgement. 

"Somehow terror has not yet gotten the best of us," she stated softly, massaging the back of his neck with her fingers. 

He rumbled in agreement, "Let us hope it never will." 

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

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